


The Liquid Gold

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drugs, Druids, M/M, Magic, Reincarnation, Romance, Sex Magic, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur goes to a club restricted for magic users it sets in motion a great course of events—young boys are being chased, time is being reversed and revolutions are plotted…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Club

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Liquid Gold - O/S](https://archiveofourown.org/works/832632) by [mssdare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare). 



> Warnings: dub/con, underage sex, age disparity, drugs, references to religion, infidelity, a character death (not main) – if you are anxious about the warnings please read additional notes at the end of the story, it may help ;)  
> Also - mentions of other pairings: past Arthur/Gwen, Merlin/Mordred, merlin/Gwaine, Arthur/Owain
> 
> The characters of Merlin and Arthur don’t belong to me.
> 
> This fic originated as a O/S for Em because she wanted this pic http://pics.livejournal.com/ememmyem/pic/000508ze to be written for Emmy’s Pervy Picspirations on http://www.pervpackssmutshack.com. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Druid!Merlin, especially after seeing this art: http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/15432184494 and it evolved into something longer. 
> 
> I’d like to thank my amazing pre-readers/betas – Sonofsilly (Sillygoose), who’s done an enormous work on this (!), and Detochkina (lullbeblessed) for working with me on this story for more than a year. Thank you Beckybrit for britpicking! Any mistakes remaining are my own (I am not a native English speaker).  
> The references to religion and paganism / Druidism although based on research on Celtic tradition and my knowledge of Slavic pagan rituals are totally made up and not intended to offend anyone. I’d like to thank Fr333bird for Beltane chapter inspiration. <3
> 
> Original O/S is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/832632

Arthur shouldn’t be here. He knows he crossed the line when he followed a girl he met during a morning TV interview into this club. She’s connected to the magical ones, and Arthur shouldn’t stick his nose into the places meant only for them. He can only hope she hasn’t noticed him sneaking inside after her.

He loses her right after entering the club. The crowd of sweating bodies jumping up and down to the pounding rhythm of the music reminds him of early rave parties, snatches of which he’s seen on TV. He’s too young to have taken part in them, but it wouldn’t be his kind of entertainment anyway.

The air smells like ozone and perfume, and the lights are constantly flashing and changing colours. It makes Arthur dizzy. At this time on a Friday night he’d normally be in a pub with his best mate, Leon, drinking beer and watching football on the telly. He’s tired and wants to get out of the crowd, silently cursing himself for his nosiness and stupid idea of following the girl to this damned place.

He’s about to leave when the lights dim and the music changes. The whole crowd goes ecstatic—hollering, whistling, and stomping their feet—moving as one to face a little stage at the back where an enormous throne is placed. A group of young people dressed like Ancient Egyptian slaves enter the stage. Their tunics are wrapped loosely around their hips, long necklaces hang down their bare chests, and bracelets hug their arms like golden serpents. They’re followed by a tall young man in a black cape with a hood. He raises his head and greets everyone with a small wave of his hand. The man’s exposed skin is glowing, as if it’s covered in golden dust. He’s wearing nothing under the opened cape, except for a necklace with a half-moon pendant.

This mustbe some kind of show. Arthur’s seen something like this in a nightclub once before. But no one on the stage is dancing or performing. The guy sits on the throne and the “slaves” take up positions around him, as though they’re his guards.

For a long moment nothing happens, but Arthur is unable to take his eyes off the motionless hooded man. The sight of his exposed body ignites something warm in Arthur’s stomach. The way the man has his eyes half closed, as if his lids are too heavy, is filling Arthur with want to see what’s behind them, to have a glimpse. He aches to touch this man’s golden skin.

That’s probably why Arthur doesn’t oppose when the crowd squeezes and pushes him into one of the first rows around the stage. The music changes once more, and two olive-skinned women, dressed in black capes matching the one the man is wearing, enter the stage carrying a large golden cup in their hands. They kneel in front of the man on the throne, and after what seems like ages he finally gets up and takes the cup from them, walking slowly to the edge of the stage.

Arthur rolls his eyes because the whole scene before him is so cliché: the priest-like appearance of the man, the golden cup, the kneeling girls—it’s way too tacky. However, something about the ambiance around him isn’t matching the parody. People seem to be holding their breath, anticipating the man’s next move. And then the man raises his eyes and Arthur can see that they’re glowing—they are pure gold. He’s mesmerized, just like the people surrounding him. When the man beckons with his hand and the front row starts approaching him, Arthur moves along in the line with them.

“Who is he?” he whispers to a girl standing next to him in the line.

“What?” she snaps, as if bewildered that he doesn’t know. “That’s Emrys, our _Merlin_.”

“Merlin?”

“Who brought you here?” she asks sharply, but before she can pay him more attention it’s her turn in line.

Emrys dips his finger into the liquid in the cup. Arthur can see now that it’s the same colour as the man’s eyes and it seems to be _alive_ ,swirling and glistening and moving inside the cup. Emrys reaches his finger towards the girl and she opens her mouth while he places a drop of the liquid onto her tongue. It looks as if it’s a communion of sorts, or a strange drug-taking ritual.

Arthur wants to get out of the crowd. He’s never taken drugs before—apart from smoking some pot in the backyard of Leon’s house—and he doesn’t want to start popping some modern magical kind of ecstasy or whatever the golden stuff is. But then Emrys sets his eyes on him and Arthur’s legs almost give out underneath him. He walks shakily towards the man, unable to break the connection of their stare. Emrys’ eyes are indeed the same as the liquid in the cup. Fire dances in them like molten gold, oscillating and moving as if driven by some inner force.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Emrys says to Arthur. His voice is deep and melodic.

“I, uh—” Arthur tries to explain himself, but Emrys isn’t listening.

“Open,” he says and Arthur opens his mouth while Emrys places a drop of the golden liquid onto his tongue.

It tastes bitter and sweet, like oriental spices, or a medication, and it heats up the inside of his mouth instantly while numbing it at the same time. The feeling is similar to the cooling heat of menthol paste his father used to rub on his chest and feet when he was little and sick with fever.

At first nothing happens, but then he starts feeling an odd tingling in his fingers that soon  spreads throughout his whole body. The lines around him become blurry and shapes seem to be glowing with pale golden light. People have started dancing again, and he’s caught up in a prison of tangled limbs, backs rubbing against him, feet stamping upon him, hands pushing him out of the way. He looks down at his hands and sees they are glowing, too. The gold is seeping out of them, making him wonder if his body still has its boundaries or if he’s melted into the glowing, surreal surroundings and can’t define himself anymore.

There’s a young man standing right in front of Arthur on the other side of the room. He’s motionless, surrounded by the mass of moving bodies, and he’s observing Arthur with intense, watery blue eyes. In a way it feels weird, this gaze, and Arthur is about to walk towards the man to see what he wants, when suddenly he feels a tug on his hand.

“Follow me.” He hears from behind. Someone’s dragging him through the crowd and then up some stairs. He can’t be sure where he is exactly, but he supposes it’s the back part of the club, maybe the staff offices. He’s pushed through a door and into a small, dimly lit room, and he hears the door shutting behind him.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Arthur hears again, and then Emrys suddenly emerges from the darkness. Arthur has trouble keeping his focus, the phases of movements are lost to him and it seems like one moment Emrys is at the back of the room and the next he’s right in front of him. In the dim light, the golden aura makes it difficult to discern the edges of objects in the room.

Emrys wraps his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. His touch is cool and a bit damp, and the skin contact sends a jolt of electricity between them. It’s a bit unpleasant, like when you touch your tongue to a battery, but it’s also mesmerizing, and Arthur wants the feeling to continue. The air smells even more strongly of ozone now, and Arthur can’t avert his eyes from Emrys’ hand.

Arthur has never allowed himself to be interested in men before, but he’s achingly hard and breathless, one hot tangle of pure want. He needs Emrys to touch him, he yearns to feel Emrys’ hands on more of his skin. But when the man finally touches him, Arthur stills in shock, suddenly uncertain. He watches, paralysed, as Emrys pulls up Arthur’s shirt and opens the buttons of his jeans with one hand. His fingers, long and elegant, are leaking gold just like Arthur’s skin is leaking it—glowing, tingling, alive with the magic.

Emrys pushes Arthur back onto a couch, covering Arthur’s body with his. His breath is hot on Arthur’s skin and when his fingers curl around Arthur’s erection Arthur comes embarrassingly quickly, almost at the first touch, spilling messily over Emrys’ hand.

“It’s a sin to spill your seed like this,” Emrys says, leaning down, licking his fingers of Arthur’s come. “Unless you do it over wet ground to make it breed.” He darts his tongue out to lap at Arthur’s skin, cleaning him up like he’s eating him.

Arthur blinks, desperately trying to clear his blurry vision and stop the fluctuating dance of the surroundings, but all he can see is the glowing contour of Emrys’ body looming above him. Emrys’ skin keeps getting warmer and warmer, the heat of it hitting Arthur’s skin, robbing him of his breath like the aftershock of an explosion.

Emrys’ touch is creating small jolts that sting a bit but are also painfully arousing. Arthur closes his eyes and gives in to the feeling, letting the liquid gold spread inside his body and take over his cells and blood vessels. He hears Emrys whispering something in his ear in a language he doesn’t recognize, and suddenly their clothes are gone. Now they’re touching skin to skin, and the feeling is more intense than before. Arthur gasps when Emrys’ heat bursts somewhere deep inside his body, filling him up intimately, as he surrenders to Emrys moving inside him, conquering his body with his own and his strange magic.

Light flashes brightly in front of Arthur’s eyes, even though he’s sure he’s kept them shut tightly. He feels gentle touches of delicate fingers on his face and a shuddered breath on his lips. Then he hears Emrys whispering, “Now I’ve planted my magic inside you.”

xxx

Arthur wakes up the next morning from disturbing dreams of golden eyes and moving bodies. He doesn’t remember leaving the back room, or going home from the club. The last thing he can recall is Emrys looking at him in a way that makes his chest clench and his insides twist in a tight knot even now.

It was just a dream, he tries to convince himself as he sits up, roughing his hair up with his fingers. It’s not possible he had sex with a man. That can’t be real. But as he’s standing up he catches a glimpse of something shimmering on his wrist. It’s a stamp he got while entering the club. It’s a bit faded, but he can make out the lines that create an elaborate sign. For a moment he thinks the lines are moving and pulsing a bit, but when he looks closer it’s just simple golden ink on his skin.

The more Arthur thinks of the events of the previous night the more he’s convinced most of his memories aren’t real. He must indeed have been drugged and poisoned there, out of his mind hallucinating.

But dream or not, he can’t get Emrys out of his head. He seems to see the man everywhere—on the Tube when he goes to work, in a crowd in front of a theatre the next weekend. The stamp is no longer visible on his skin, but Arthur feels as if Emrys has taken over his body and his mind, as if he’s really _planted_ himself inside him.

He tries going back to the club to see if he can meet Emrys there, but no matter how meticulously he searches he can’t seem to find his way back. It’s as if the club has vanished, replaced by ugly, abandoned buildings with no glass in the windows and with peeling paint on the walls.

Eventually, he gives up searching.

xxx

It’s been a long, hard morning in the office and Arthur has to go out for at least a few minutes or his brain will fry. He grabs a sandwich from the cafeteria and goes to a nearby park to eat it outside, never mind the cold.

A bunch of boys on rollerblades, skateboards and longboards are doing their tricks, jumping on a high kerb and then down again. Arthur looks without really looking until he recognizes _Emrys_ among the boys, riding on a small black board that twists underneath his battered trainers.

There is no mistake about it: those are the same delicate facial features, full lips, and dark ruffled hair of the man from the club.

“Hey! Oi!” Arthur shouts, jumping to his feet and walking towards the boys. He sees him clearly now in the midday light. Emrys can’t be older than fifteen, sixteen maybe.

_Christ, he’s just a child,_ Arthur thinks in horror, but it doesn’t deter him from his chase. Because it _is_ a chase, now that Emrys has spotted him and tries to escape on his skateboard.

“Hey, Emrys, wait!” Arthur shouts again, catching up with the boy, reaching for his bony elbow.

“Let me go!” the boy yells, pulling his arm out of Arthur’s grasp.

“You’re Emrys,” Arthur whispers, amazed by the deep blue of the boy’s eyes.

“I’m not,” the boy says firmly. “I don’t know you.” He pushes Arthur out of the way and rides away, glancing a few times over his shoulder to see if Arthur is following him.

This _is_ the same Emrys from the club and Arthur’s sure of it. But he lets the boy go.

Inside his body Arthur feels as if something’s being shifted—particles moving into new slots, and knots being tied—until a whole new order of cells is established.


	2. The Hostage

A blaring horn and the sudden rattling of dumpster bins interrupt the steady, drumming sound of the rain and startle Arthur awake.

“Fuck.” He hits the home button on his iPhone to see the time and yes—it’s already half past eight. _Fucking snooze._

He dresses quickly, foregoing the shower and his usual morning breakfast even though his head is _killing_ him and the bitter taste of yesterday’s beer still lingers on his tongue. That’s what happens when he’s carefree enough to go out to a pub with Leon on a weekday evening. Father will have him beheaded. They have an early morning meeting to talk about next season’s live shows. Arthur’s been working on the polls and statistics for the last two weeks. He’s as prepared as can be and he’s really counted on not disappointing his father this time, although he knows nothing is ever enough for “The King,” as people call Uther Pendragon, the founder and CEO of Camelot Media. So maybe being late doesn’t change anything.

Outside, the freezing downpour turns the world into a grey, blurry sketch. Arthur curses again because there’s no way he can make it to the Tube in his thin leather dress shoes without getting them soaked along with the hem of his trousers. And he won’t have time to change in the office. He fishes the keys to his car and heads to the garage, punching the lift button a few times even though he knows it won’t make the lift go any faster.

The drive to work is painfully slow. It seems like everyone’s started to go at a snail’s pace because there’s rain, which is ridiculous since it rains almost every day at this time of year. If Arthur could, he’d will the drivers to at least pay attention to the changing lights and actually _move_ when they turn green. But the drive-stop-drive-stop rhythm makes him sleepy and distracted too, and his thoughts drift from the upcoming conversation with his father to the evening with Leon and the cause of yesterday’s impromptu drinking binge, which is that Arthur is _confused_. Or maybe confused is too strong a word here. He’s _uneasy_.

Ever since he saw the boy, Emrys, he’s had an uncomfortable feeling that he just can’t shake. He’d convinced himself the whole experience in the club was nothing but a drug-induced hallucination. But now he’s not so sure anymore. Seeing _Merlin_ in the daylight, stripped of his costume and his Druid entourage, has altered Arthur’s way of thinking about that night. It’s made it clearer, more probable. And if all that was real, well, then Arthur isn’t sure how he feels about it anymore. How he feels about himself.

But now is not the time to sort out this mess. He rolls down his window, letting the freezing air fill the interior of his car and wipe out the vapour blocking his view. It wipes out the vapour in his head, too.

By the time he enters the garage it’s way past nine. He dials his father’s number only to be greeted by the sour voice of his father’s scary assistant, Catrina.

“Your father started the meeting at nine. It’s _twenty five_ past nine,” she informs him as if he’s unaware of the time.

He refuses to explain himself to her; he’ll have to face his father’s wrath anyway.

“Which room?” he asks.

“The ‘Scarlet’ office. Grab your father’s notebook on your way. He was so disturbed by your tardiness that he left it on his desk.”

Arthur curses silently and hangs up, then uses his access card to get to his father’s floor. The glass door clicks closed behind him as he walks past Catrina’s immaculate headquarters and towards the main area at the back. The thick carpet mutes his footsteps. Uther’s huge wooden doors are slightly ajar, which is strange because his father always locks his office when he’s not in. But Arthur puts it down to Uther’s anger when he was leaving. Arthur’s still in a hurry, lost in thoughts about possible excuses for his tardiness. In his mind he goes over the details of the data he has to present. Maybe that’s why he misses the weird commotion behind the door. He pushes it and finds himself face to face with _Emrys._

The boy stands straight, pale and stern-faced, his arms unnaturally stiff. His dark blue eyes widen at the sight of Arthur and he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“What—“ Arthur starts and then jumps, heart missing a beat and a flush of heat flooding his body when an unfamiliar voice on his right says, “Well, well, _Arthur Pendragon_.”

Arthur turns. There’s a man standing there. His whole face is covered in burn marks; his blue eyes peek out from under scarred eyelids. His hands are scarred, too, and he’s missing half of one finger on the right hand. He’s holding a small, black device, and when Arthur sees a thick cord attached to the device he follows it until it disappears into a thick belt of... something that looks awfully like explosives wrapped around the man’s chest.

“Don’t move,” the man says. “As you can well see, I have a nice amount of C-4 here, and I will detonate it if Uther doesn’t come talk to me, and if you don’t put me on air so I can deliver my message to the people.”

Arthur blinks. This guy looks as if he’s already been through fire and back. This is surreal, like a scene out of a movie, or a practical joke, maybe. And Emrys. Emrys is here, currently digging his thin fingers into the mess of his unruly black hair.

“Fuck, Edwin,” he says. “He’s not who you want.”

“Oh, he’s just as good.” Edwin observes Arthur, who holds his hands up in a soothing gesture of surrender, phone still in his palm. “Place your phone on the floor and put your hands on your head where I can see them. Slowly,” he orders, and Arthur complies, crouching to lay his phone next to his feet and straightening up with his hands on his head. They are surprisingly steady. He should be nervous, but if he is he doesn’t feel it.

“Now, lead me to a studio so I can broadcast my message,” the man says. “Em, you too.”

Emrys jerks.

“Are you a hostage or are you with him?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur,” Emrys says quietly.

“You know each other?” the bomber cuts in. “Oh, this is just—” He watches them both thoughtfully. “Is this why you followed me?” he asks the boy, but then shakes his head. “Never mind that. It changes nothing now. Let’s go.”

Arthur’s phone vibrates on the floor, “UTHER” displaying in caps on the screen as if shouting.

The bomber waves Arthur off and leans down to pick up the phone. “Hello, Uther. Long time no talk. It’s Edwin Muirden. You must remember me, surely,” he says into the speaker. “I have your Arthur here with me, as well as forty pounds of C-4. I’ll be waiting for you in studio…” he pauses to look expectantly at Arthur.

“Five,” Arthur provides, wondering why his lips seem to be stiff and glued together. He coughs and repeats the number.

“In studio five,” the bomber continues. “I want you to be in the studio within the next ten minutes, otherwise I’m setting us all on fire, your precious heir included.” There’s a small pause during which Arthur wonders what his father’s saying and then Muirden picks up the conversation. “It’s amazing how much he looks like his mother, isn’t it? It’d be a shame to watch him burn, to see all that sacrifice go to waste. After all, she did give her life for him. In fact, we’ve _all_ been payingfor his life.”

There’s an unwritten rule in the Pendragon family that Arthur’s mother and her death aren’t to be spoken of. Even when Arthur was a teenager, becoming aware of his emotions and wanting to know more about his heritage—even then Uther cut off each conversation Arthur ever started. The only thing he ever learned was, “Your mother died in childbirth.” End of story. So it’s surprising that this man, whom Arthur hasn’t ever seen before, apparently has more knowledge of his mother’s death then he does.

He must have missed what the bomber was saying because the man looks impatient.

“Lead the way and don’t try any tricks,” he says.

Arthur walks towards studio five followed by Emrys and the terrorist. No one’s in the hallway; morning programs are all filming in different studios and the afternoon news team hasn’t arrived yet. Arthur exhales in a fleeting moment of relief but then starts wondering if meeting someone wouldn’t be beneficial to their situation. He touches his card to the reader and the door to the studio clicks open.

The centre of the studio is empty, all cameras standing in their usual positions, decorations stacked behind the back wall, news table still covered with papers left after an earlier programme.

“Now, sit by the wall there.” The bomber motions to his right. His finger is gliding over the release button of the detonator, back and forth, back and forth, making Arthur think it’s a miracle they aren’t all dead already.

Arthur starts walking towards the wall. He notices that his legs are shaky even though he could swear he feels so normal, so very collected. He sits on the floor, leans against the wall, and places his hands on the floor. Emrys sits down next to him with his legs drawn to his chin and his arms hugging his knees.

“How come you’re here?” Arthur whispers to the boy, but Emrys only shakes his head. He turns to the bomber. “Now what?”

“We wait for Uther.” The bomber nods in an odd way. It’s a ragged movement, like a nervous tick. He starts pacing around the studio, picking up scattered sheets of paper, touching glass tables, turning chairs around and around.

Next to Arthur, Emrys is still silent, watching the bomber with careful eyes. Arthur can feel the warmth that radiates from the boy’s body where their legs and arms nearly touch.

Time is crucial in their situation, yet everything seems to have been paused. Nothing’s happening. Uther doesn’t arrive. No sound comes from the other side of the door. Arthur imagines that people are probably running around frantically, talking on phones, giving commands, working fast. But here inside the studio moments drag like drops of rain falling down from the sky, every one of them palpable and heavy. There’s just the squeaking of Edwin’s left shoe as he paces and Emrys’ sitting next to him, his breathing even but a bit too fast.

The bomber must get tired of waiting, too, because he stops walking and turns to them.

“Uther isn’t coming, is he? Even for his son. All that death…” Then, after a sigh, “Put me on air. I’ve a message to deliver.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not sure I know how.” It’s been years since he last helped in here during his internships, when being a journalist was his dream job. The man, Edwin, plays with the detonator again, and it looks as if he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it. Arthur holds his breath, willing Edwin’s finger to _still_. “I could try though,” he says cautiously.

“You really don’t want to do this, Edwin, please.” Emrys speaks up for the first time since they entered the studio. It’s so sudden it feels out of place. He starts crawling slowly towards the centre of the room, looking so slight and vulnerable in his plain black T-shirt and skinny jeans that Arthur feels a sudden urge to grab him and pull him back, to protect him with his own body like he’s a knight in shining armour coming to the rescue. “If it’s Mordred who told you—“

“Mordred didn’t tell me to do anything. Get back by the wall!” Edwin yells. He collects himself after a moment and adds softly, “You should’ve stayed at the House. You shouldn’t have followed me. I’m sorry. It was never my intention to get you killed, too. But we all need to make sacrifices. And sometimes sons have to pay for their father’s sins.” There’s sadness in his voice, but then he turns to Arthur and his expression is a stern one.

“Turn on the camera and put me on air,” he demands. He moves towards Arthur, the fingers of his free hand twitching rapidly.

“Do as he says,” Emrys whispers, and it’s the boy’s tone of voice rather than the terrorist’s order that makes Arthur walk slowly towards the control booth. He goes inside, hoping like hell that he hasn’t forgotten how it’s done. He fusses with the buttons and eventually starts the computers and a camera. He barely manages to set the lighting. Nothing is being broadcast really, that much Arthur knows, but the big red “On Air” sign is lit, and Arthur hopes the bomber will be fooled.

“You’re on,” Arthur says through the intercom. “Camera three, the one with the red light on.”

The guy turns to the camera and swallows. His voice is shaky as he starts. “My name is Edwin Muirden. I stand here today for all those who were born with magic and who are oppressed and persecuted. We are portrayed by the media as dangerous, while it is we who need protection...”

Arthur doesn’t listen. All he sees are Emrys’ eyes, huge with worry as he watches the bomber.

“This is why we need to make a hard statement today,” Edwin continues. “So, are you ready, Uther Pendragon, to watch your son die for your sins?” With that, the bomber turns towards the booth where Arthur stands behind the glass and presses down the release button on the detonator.

xxx

When Arthur thinks about it later, he can neither explain nor understand what happened.

The explosion hits them with force, white light and fire spreading everywhere around them, consuming in a blink of an eye the decoration props and the Plexiglas boards used for dividing the scenes, torching studio technical equipment, and wrinkling the green screen in the corner like a sheet of paper. Yet, in the next moment, everything moves in reverse; defragmented parts of the studio are being pushed back to where they were, as if sucked into their original slots. The glass of the broadcast booth, which had shattered in the heat of the blast, begins to reassemble into one whole piece again in front of Arthur’s eyes.

The air smells like ozone, and there’s Emrys in the middle of it all, marching through the cloud of swirling particles, glowing like the sun with his hands in front of himself, eyes gold and lips moving as if he’s singing, but Arthur can’t hear a sound.

Arthur rushes out of the booth only to find himself on his hands and knees, suddenly confused where’s up and where’s down. The bomber is on the ground, too, and Emrys stands over him scowling, but also crying, although Arthur isn’t so sure about the latter.

“You fucking, stupid idiot,” Emrys says miserably, swaying and looking like he’s about to pass out.

He leans over the terrorist and reaches with his hand to brush the hair out of the man’s face. Then he turns around, searching for something. Arthur stands up, ready to help, even though he has no idea what Emrys is looking for. The boy comes back, dragging a metal pipe that is normally used for set framing, and he hovers over Edwin with it.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles as he closes his eyes and hits the bomber on the head with the pipe. Hard. There’s a dull sound of injury and blood on the ground, and when Emrys turns to Arthur he has this crazed expression on his face. It scares Arthur, who takes two steps back.

“Take it,” Emrys says, shoving the pipe into Arthur’s hand, his voice cracking now. “They can’t know I was here. Is there anyplace here I could hide?”

Arthur decides now isn’t the time to ask questions, so he starts digging in his pockets with one hand, because he’s still holding the bloodied pipe in the other one, and he passes his access card into Emrys’ waiting hand.

“Go through the bathrooms at the back. They have a way out to the hall, too. Just wait until it’s clear. Then up the stairs. Third door on the left is ‘Marketing.’ It’s my office. Stay there and wait for me.”

“And the cameras here? The recording?”

Arthur shakes his head and then nods towards the glass door. “Nothing was on.”

He watches Emrys go, swaying and supporting himself against the wall a few times, but Arthur doesn’t have time for anything else because suddenly there’s pounding on the studio door and voices yelling, and Arthur shouts back, “Here. I’m here!”

And then once again he says quietly, as if he wants to confirm his presence to himself, “I’m here.”

xxx

“Oh, my God, Arthur! Are you all right?” Gwen runs to him and hugs him _fiercely,_ and he realises they haven’t touched since their break-up this summer.

He can’t believe it’s been this long already. Gwen’s hug is so familiar, so soothing, even after all the heartache they’ve been through. He looks into Gwen’s gentle dark eyes and wonders again how he fucked things up with her so badly. Why didn’t he care enough? Why didn’t he try just a little bit harder for the sake of them both? For now he’s just grateful he hasn’t lost her presence in the office as well, and that she agreed to stay and work as his assistant even after they split up.

“I’m okay, Gwen. Thank you. We got lucky.” He hugs her back, inhaling the sweet scent of the shampoo he used to love so much, and then gently unwraps himself from her arms because there are people waiting for him to answer questions, to give interviews, to explain what happened.

He sees Leon, who must have come with the anti-terrorist squad even though it’s not his department, and smiles because it’s somehow comforting to have people he can trust around him in such a moment. It feels like a family. More so than Uther, who comes to pat Arthur on the shoulder and ruffle his hair—something he hasn’t done since Arthur was twelve.

“Where were you?” Arthur asks, trying hard not to make it sound like an accusation. _Uther isn’t coming. Even for his son._ That’s all he can hear in his head while watching his father give orders, talk on the phone, and answer questions.

“I couldn’t let this man dictate the rules,” Uther says.

Arthur wants to say that his father should’ve been thinking of Arthur’s life first and worrying about having the upper hand later, but instead he mumbles something about needing to grab some stuff from his office before heading home. He’s free till the next day when he’ll have to give a formal statement to CO19. This morning’s meeting has been rescheduled for the day after tomorrow to accommodate him.

xxx

Arthur finds Emrys on the floor of his office, curled up behind his desk. Emrys looks up at Arthur and his eyes are red and puffy, as if he’s been crying all this time. He’s also very pale. ~~~~

“Come on,” Arthur says and extends his hand to the boy. “I’ll take you outside.” He expects to feel the same jolt of electricity he felt when Emrys touched him in the club, but there’s nothing like that—just Emrys’ cold hand in his own.

“Edwin?” Emrys asks weakly.

“He’s in police custody. Taken to a hospital, I reckon. You hit him pretty hard.” Emrys flinches at that but lets Arthur continue. “He’s a mess. He was babbling about how he’d blown the place up. I’m pretty sure they won’t be releasing him any time soon.”

Arthur leads them to the nearest elevator and they go down to the parking lot. Arthur silently thanks his lucky stars for the rain that made him drive his car to the office this morning.

Emrys folds himself into the passenger seat and they drive out of the garage into the rain-blurred streets. It’s nearly dark already, and the boy looks even worse now in the ghostly light of the streetlamps than he did curled up under Arthur’s desk. Emrys leans his head against the car window and closes his eyes.

“Are you going to be sick?” Arthur asks, reaching towards Emrys and then pulling his hand back. He looks around his car for something to give Emrys: a mint, maybe, or a plastic bag.

Emrys blinks once, then again, and says, “No. I’m... I don’t think so.” But he doesn’t sound convincing to Arthur, especially when he opens his eyes wide and looks as if he’s trying hard to focus on Arthur’s face.

“Where would you like me to take you?” Arthur asks. There’s silence and Arthur debates repeating the question, but then Emrys finally speaks, although so quietly Arthur has to strain to catch the words.

“Can I crash at your place? It’s…” He pauses and picks at the sleeves of his shirt before turning to Arthur and continuing even more quietly. “I can’t really go back to the House today, or they’ll know what I did. And I don’t have any other place to go tonight.” His eyes are teary again and God, Arthur will do anything right now to keep the boy from crying.

“Sure. Sure you can crash at my place,” Arthur says, wondering what Emrys meant when he said that “they’ll know” what he did. Who are “they”? House Elders? And which part of the “doing” is Emrys referring to—his strange presence as the bomber’s companion, or what happened later when Muirden almost blew them up? Or actually did blow them up... Arthur still doesn’t know what happened, but he’s pretty sure the bomb _did_ go off and that Emrys somehow forced the bomb back into its original state or turned back time. It’s all impossible, of course. Arthur knows that. But he was there and he saw it happen. And he’s got a living, albeit somewhat banged-up, proof of it sitting right here in his car.

Arthur has to support Emrys in the elevator when they go up to his flat, and then Emrys just collapses on the couch, says something polite about the place being nice, and falls asleep a moment later. Arthur brings him a blanket from the bedroom and covers him up. Emrys lies with his lips slightly parted and long eyelashes casting deep shadows on his cheeks. His skin is almost translucent, with no trace of the golden glint Arthur remembers from their first encounter in the club. He studies the even features of the boy’s face, trying to glue different impressions together—of the mysterious and demanding master of ceremony he met in the club, of the desperate man hitting the bomber’s head with the pipe, and of the frail boy here sleeping on his couch.

Arthur feels exhausted himself. He sighs, standing up slowly, and walks to the kitchen to prepare himself a cup of tea, but he changes his mind and goes for a shot of whiskey instead.

When he returns to the living room, Emrys is mumbling something in his sleep, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his upper lip and his fingers twitching. Arthur sits next to the boy and listens to him for a while. Then he places his hand on Emrys’ ankle where it sticks out from beneath the blanket. He moves his hand up until it reaches Emrys’ bare skin, and suddenly the boy calms down, his breath evens out, and his fingers stop moving.

_He’s just a kid_ , Arthur reminds himself. He stands up and goes to his bedroom, leaving the door open just in case Emrys wakes up and needs anything. He sits on the bed and scowls at his phone, deciding he can deal with all the messages later. He should shower and eat, and it’s still pretty early, but he’s so exhausted that he falls asleep still clutching his phone, with his clothes on and feet on the floor.

When he opens his eyes the next morning, feeling stiff and suffering a horrible headache, Emrys isn’t there anymore, and although Arthur isn’t surprised at all, he’s disappointed. He needs answers. He needs to understand what happened. But since he can’t do it without confronting Emrys, what he _really_ needs is to find the boy first. 


	3. Em

“Fucking hell.” Arthur puts his empty beer glass on the table and shakes his head at Leon. “I swear, if I have to give yet another interview I might blow up a TV building myself.”

Everybody thinks he’s a hero—taking down a terrorist with nothing but a piece of set decoration. He’s juggling his statements, lying about Emrys, about Edwin’s motives, about his own reaction… He’s starting to believe his own stories, and it’s getting harder to tell what’s real and what’s PR. He points his finger at Leon accusingly, as if it’s his fault. “Those reporters? They’re _mental_. If Uther didn’t _own_ most of them, they’d stalk my apartment building!”

“You could ask for security, you know,” Leon says. “They’d grant you an officer if you’d only ask. I could help with that.”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. I couldn’t stand anyone babysitting me, lurking in my hallway, or worse, peeking at my stuff.” _Knowing what I’m up to,_ Arthur adds in his head, because he’s spending almost every free hour searching for Emrys, who has once again vanished without a trace. Not knowing the guy’s last name doesn’t help. He wishes he could ask Leon to help him find the boy, but he won’t risk the police knowing about him. Besides, he can picture how pissed off at him Leon would be for concealing that crucial piece of information about the bombing attempt.

He’s not sure himself why he trusts that boy—for all he knows Emrys was in on it with Muirden. But even if that was the case he still doesn’t want police to sniff around Emrys and find out about Arthur’s visit to Avalon and the sex— _God, the sex there_! He rubs at his chest because every time he thinks of Emrys he gets that weird feeling of a pull, of a longing so strong it makes him almost breathless.

“Anyway,” he tells Leon, “I wanted to ask you about something else. Do you know much about the Houses?”

Leon pulls a face. “As much as everyone else. What do you need to know?”

“Not sure. How do you even get into a House? If you are a magical one, you’re registered automatically, right? And you get magical training there until you’re, what? Eighteen?” He raises his brow, waiting for confirmation.

“Eighteen, yes,” Leon says. “All magic users have to report to their House by the age of twelve and subject themselves to a magical scan every seventy-two hours until they’re of age. And after that they register with their House district, and the Elders of the district are in control of the use of magic. They can call sorcerers back for additional scans if necessary.”

Arthur keeps nodding because everything Leon says confirms what Arthur already knows.

“So once a magical one registers with one of the Houses they’re under permanent strict surveillance? Sounds bloody awful to me. I mean—there’s no escape from being controlled by the Elders then, is there?”

“These laws protect magic users as much as they protect us,” Leon says sternly. “We don’t want public lynch mobs again, or magical riots.”

Arthur nods again, because yes, of course he knows about the Riots, he’s old enough to remember the last of them. He recalls squad cars burning and policemen using live fire, marching behind transparent shields, trying to overcome magical assaults. “No, we don’t. But do we know who these Elders are?”

“High Priests or Priestesses, I reckon.” Leon shrugs. “No one interferes much with their system as long as they keep their magic under control. And yes, there’ve been stories about abuse of power in the Houses, but no one’s ever confirmed it. Why do you want to know about it?”

“I’m just trying to understand why Edwin Muirden was after my father. Why would he be so desperate to destroy him? I don’t believe that father’s disapproval of magic is enough to make him a target.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, too,” Leon says. “I can’t tell you much about the investigation, as it’s classified, but I can tell you it’s weird—there’s tons of information missing about the Riots, and most data is classified; even my supervisors have no access.”

Arthur rubs his eyes. He’s so tired again. Maybe it’s the beer, but suddenly he feels introspective. He thinks about his last conversation with Uther and the way his father refused to answer any of Arthur’s questions about Muirden, or the events behind his own birth. “There’s so much I don’t know about the past, even about my father. I don't know, Leon."

Leon gives him a wary look and sips the last of his beer without saying anything.

Arthur sighs. “Gotta run, yeah? Early day tomorrow.” He stands up and starts wrapping himself in the thick layers of his winter clothing.

“When is it not?” Leon asks, following Arthur outside.

The weather is shit again—freezing, wet, and windy—and Arthur feels the chill finding its way into his bones; he’s soaked with it, pierced through, and wants nothing more than to be home as soon as possible. Once there, he heats up a frozen lasagne and eats it in front of his laptop, just like he does on most evenings.

xxx

Seeing Leon has made Arthur realize how soon his mate’s thirtieth birthday is, so as much as he hates shopping, he really has to find a suitable gift for the occasion—something that won’t be idiotic like an apron with printed naked lady-bits. He decides that wandering around the nearest shopping mall might help him find something appropriate, but after two excruciating hours he’s had enough and decides to head home, defeated. As he walks through the mall doors he bumps right into Emrys, who’s standing there with some other young guy.

“Emrys!” he exclaims, but the boy avoids his gaze and tries to move past him.

“Oh, come on,” Arthur says. “You can’t pretend that you don’t know me! Not after we’ve—” He shuts up because Emrys makes a strange head shake as if he wants Arthur to stop talking.

“Oh, Em, after you’ve _what_?” the other boy asks, his voice teasing, but with a cold tone to it.

Arthur realises how his sentence must have sounded, and tries to cover the awkwardness with a cough into his hand. He studies Emrys’ companion and he looks oddly familiar. He seems older than Emrys, but other than that they could be twins—both dark-haired and blue-eyed and dressed in similar skinny jeans, black T-shirts, and converse shoes. _Like clones,_ Arthur thinks. But while Emrys’ eyes are a deep shade of navy blue, the other boy’s eyes are like ice: crystal clear and hard. He’s beautiful, all smooth lines and milky skin, but in an uncanny way that makes Arthur’s insides twist uncomfortably.

“He came to Avalon the other night,” Emrys explains before Arthur can say anything else.

“Oh yes, I remember.” The boy narrows his eyes, and suddenly Arthur remembers the icy glare of the man standing still in the sea of moving bodies, observing Arthur. “So you’ve tasted Merlin’s come, then?”

“Excuse me?” Arthur stares at the young man.

“You know he jerks off into that cup, right?” he says with a smile.

“I do not!” Emrys huffs, his cheeks going red.

“Yes, you do,” the other boy says, never taking his eyes off Arthur. “You need to share a part of yourself, don’t you, Em? In fact…” The boy leans closer, close enough to make Arthur uncomfortable. “In fact, there’s a part of you in him still; I can _feel_ it.”

“I don’t...” Emrys protests. “It can be _anything_. Saliva… Blood…” He shifts from one foot to another.

The young man finally turns his attention back to Emrys. “It can be anything, but _come is fun_ , you said it yourself.”

Arthur wonders if this guy is messing with him, and if he should be offended. But years of working for Uther have taught him self-restraint and he won’t lose control when he needs to talk to Emrys. Passing on this opportunity would be a waste. Yet, he doesn’t know how to bring the topic up. He can’t exactly ask for Emrys’ phone number—not with his boyfriend standing right next to him.

“Okay…” he says slowly. “So, I’ll see you around, Emrys, yeah?” He turns to walk away, angry with himself that he wasn’t able to take advantage of this chance. This is not how he imagined his next meeting with Emrys. And fuck, he has to admit, he’s been thinking about it much more than he should.

“Yeah, cheers,” Emrys says, sounding as if he’s relieved their conversation is over. He turns around and tugs his companion along. The way Emrys wants to run away from Arthur as soon as he can makes Arthur unhappy. The other boy gives Arthur one more look and follows Emrys.

xxx

Arthur sits on his couch with a beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other, waiting for the highlights of today’s Premier League matches, when the buzz of his intercom sounds off.

“Fuck, what now?” he mutters to himself, because after today all he wants is to get a little drunk and go to bed. “Yes?” he barks into the intercom.

“Um… It’s me,” a familiar voice says. “Em Saunders.” Arthur presses his forehead to the doorframe. He doesn’t have the strength for this. But he buzzes Emrys in because what else can he do? He really does need answers. He opens the door and waits for Emrys to get out of the elevator.

“What do you want?” he asks, realises he’s being rude, and tries to cover it up with a small smile. “Come in,” he motions to Emrys.

The boy stands in the hallway, hesitating.

“Oh, come on. We can’t talk in the hallway. Come inside, _please_.”

Emrys enters, once he’s meticulously scrubbed his feet on the doormat. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Would you like some tea, or…” Arthur looks at his beer. “I can’t offer you a drink, can I? How old are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen,” Emrys says quickly, and Arthur raises his eyebrows. Emrys shrugs. “I will be seventeen soon. Anyway…” He plops on the couch with a grunt and extends his long legs in front of him. “I came to thank you for getting me out of that mess at the TV station. And to apologize for today.”

“Why?” Arthur’s still standing between the living room and the kitchen, not sure if he should bring Emrys something to drink or just forget about it and pretend Emrys isn’t a guest.

“Mordred, the guy I was with?  He’s… uh. He can be a pain in the arse, okay?”

“This lanky friend of yours?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Don’t judge a sorcerer by his appearance. I’ve seen seven-year-olds bring back the dead.”

Arthur shivers and thinks about Emrys—so young, barely a man—and his pale skin after he’d turned back time and prevented the bomber from killing them all.

“I don’t want him knowing about you,” the boy continues, “least about what’s happened in the Camelot building. He’s already too involved in it.”

“And what did exactly happen in the Camelot building, Emrys?” Arthur forgets the tea and goes back to stand in front of Emrys. Somehow this position fills him with an unwelcome sense of  power over the boy.

“Em,” Emrys says.

“Em?”

“No one calls me by my full name. It’s weird when you say it. Everyone says Em, or Merlin, because of… you know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“Okay.” Arthur nods. “So, Em, what happened there at the Camelot building? Because I’m pretty sure the bomb exploded. How did you…? I mean, I know _how_ , but how’s such a thing even possible?”

“It’s not really possible. And I don’t know how I did it. I just wanted it to _not happen_ and sort of pushed it back, you know?”

“No,” Arthur says, sitting down on the couch next to Em and pushing his fingers in his hair in desperation. “The thing is, I don’t know. I’ve tried hard to understand it, but I just don’t get it.”

“I’m sorry,” Em says softly and places his hand on Arthur’s thigh. This gesture makes Arthur’s breath hitch. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, clearing his throat and trying hard to come up with a question.

“And the club?”

“What about the club?” Em’s insanely blue eyes peer at Arthur, making him sweat and squirm.

“Do you really add your come to the liquid in the cup?” Arthur blurts. This is not what he wants to ask, it just _slips out of his mouth._

“Sometimes,” Em says with a scowl on his face. “But it was my blood you tasted the other night.”

Arthur’s stomach recoils at the news.

“Oh no, no.” Em waves, seeing Arthur’s expression. He’s taken his hand off Arthur’s thigh, leaving Arthur with a feeling of loss and an urge to take Em’s hand and place it there again, back in its rightful spot. “It’s not like I _bleed_ into it. It’s just a small drop of my blood to make a connection between me, the magic, and all the people who come in there. Magic needs a medium to flow through.

“You,” Arthur provides, trying to understand.

“Me, in that case, yes.” Em nods. “I’m just a messenger. I’m not relevant, I just share.”

“And you shared magic with me?”

Em nods again.

“By fucking me,” Arthur says, regretting the words the minute they’re out of his mouth because Em flinches as if Arthur’s punched him in the gut.

“That’s not how I see it.” Em looks down at his hands, picking at a loose piece of cuticle on his index finger.

“By all means, explain to me what exactly happened? Because from my point of view it looks very much like I went into that club, got drugged, and had sex with a _boy!_ ” Arthur almost shouts it, all the confusion and anxiety of the last few weeks rising to the surface.

Em doesn’t answer; he looks so unhappy, like a scolded child. But suddenly he straightens up and turns to Arthur.

“Is that what you think? That you were… what? _Violated_ in there?”

“All I know,” Arthur says, feeling miserable and cruel at the same time, “is that one moment I drank the stuff from that cup and the next moment something happened between us. You jerked me off, then you fucked me, or… I don’t know. What did you do?” Arthur’s desperate to know this; he’s been struggling with his vague memories of that night for so long and he’s determined to get the truth out of Em right now.

“I had to mark you,” Em murmurs. “I had to… I don’t know how to say it. Fill you up with magic so you wouldn’t be noticed there as an outsider. You were in danger. It would be wrong of you to drink from the cup without being _approved._ ”

“And approved means being shagged by the Master of Ceremony.”

“Will you stop saying that?” Em stands up, turning abruptly towards the door, but he halts in mid-motion and hovers over Arthur, his eyes darkened with anger, nostrils flaring. “I didn’t do anything you didn’t want that night, Arthur. We don’t _enchant_ people to get into their pants, okay? You wanted me the other night.” He cuts the distance between them and presses both of his palms on Arthur’s thighs, making Arthur lean back on the couch. “You wanted me,” he repeats, and if it sounds as if he’s a little unsure of the words he erases the uncertainty by moving even closer, till Arthur can feel the warmth radiating off Em and their lips almost touch. “You still want me.”

Arthur tries to deny this, but finds himself unable to do it. He feels Em’s hands on him and he can’t ignore the heat they ignite in him. He can’t say he’s not looking at Em’s lips or that he doesn’t want to kiss him.

“See?” Em whispers, leaning even closer. “No magic this time, just you.”

Em’s lips are dry and a little bit chapped, his breath hot against Arthur’s mouth.

“I—” Arthur starts, but then Em closes the last distance and kisses him.

It’s just a brush of skin on skin at first, tickling puffs of air, but it quickly turns into a firmer press of lips, a slide of soft tongue demanding entrance. Arthur doesn’t dare to move, but his body responds on its own, and before he can reconsider, he yields, parts his lips for Em, and invites him into the kiss. Em pushes Arthur’s shoulders back to the couch and slowly climbs up, straddling Arthur’s thighs. An “umpf” escapes his mouth as he moves farther, tilting Arthur’s head up, his hands going up on Arthur’s neck, thumbs brushing past cheeks and behind ears as he captures Arthur in the embrace.

“This—” Arthur tries to talk against the kiss but gives up, gives in, and allows it to happen.

His hand slips over the waist of Em’s jeans and under the T-shirt where the bare skin is warm and smooth under his fingers. This somewhat innocent gesture turns Arthur all hot inside. He’s unsure of how far he can allow himself to go, which makes his movements hesitant, his fingers tremble. But then Em’s pushing himself against Arthur, grinding his hips against Arthur’s, and heat overflows him, taking any remaining thought with it. There’s only the feeling of want, and Em’s lips—pliant and yet demanding at the same time—opening for him, inviting him in. And then there’s Em’s tongue, the soft stub of it, as it darts to lick the corners of Arthur’s mouth. It meets Arthur’s tongue in soft glides at first but then pushes more urgently, until they are as close as possible, teeth clicking, little grunts of pleasure escaping their mouths.

He doesn’t recall kissing like this before—not in this dirty, hot way, and he’s never gotten so lost in a single kiss. Em’s hand wanders between them where their clothed erections rub against each other. Something like a wheeze escapes Arthur when Em’s thumb grazes over his cock trapped inside his jeans. Em runs his hand up over Arthur’s hips, catching the belt loops and pulling Arthur closer. After that it’s all about urgent thrusts of their hips, the press of them, the delicious and infuriating sensation, and Arthur’s way too old to be dry humping like this but way too aroused to put a stop to it.

Somewhere in all this they’ve stopped kissing and Arthur can feel Em’s hot, quick breath on his neck where Em has pressed his opened mouth, teeth scraping against Arthur’s skin. It’s that what does it—the last push of Em’s hips against him, the slight pain from the bite on Arthur’s neck, and the curl of Em’s fingers on Arthur’s arse. In the midst of his orgasm Arthur hears Em’s repeated little moans. And then it all stills, the buzz in his ears eases, and suddenly he’s very much aware of their laboured breaths, of the creaking of the couch under Em’s shins, and the silence of the apartment.

He sees Em stumble down from his knees and rush to the door, a dark spot on the boy’s trousers indicating that not only Arthur got lost in the moment. Arthur’s left breathless, his mouth dry and hands slippery with sweat.

“Em! Em, wait, please!” Arthur shouts while getting up, his come sticky and wet inside his jeans. But Em is already out of the apartment and running down the stairs.

“Fuck,” Arthur says to the empty hallway. Why do all encounters with Em have to be so dramatic and end with Arthur being confused? Why does Em have to vanish without a trace each time?

He goes back to the apartment and flops on the couch, sighing. He feels uncomfortable with come drying in his trousers and needs to clean himself up, but he doesn’t have the energy to go to the bathroom. He covers his eyes with his arm and tries to gather his thoughts, to explain to himself what’s just happened, to understand his reactions—the betrayal of his body, the fever that overtook his common sense and allowed him to get off with this boy for the second time.

He’s never felt strongly about sex before. Of course, he’s done it, although not as often as people would think, judging by his good looks and his ranking as one of London’s most eligible bachelors. But still, in his experience, it has never been something he’s obsessed over. There’s been no state of ecstasy, no earth-shattering feeling of being consumed, no magic. Instead, it has mostly been about the dull taste of skin under his tongue, warm and salty, some gasps and an awkward “can you move…?” while trying to adjust the logistics of limbs. And finally, a brief moment of bliss followed by even more awkwardness—the embarrassment of another person having seen his intimate facial expressions and body movements.

Even with Gwen—and he really did think Gwen might have been “the one” for him, before he had too many late evenings at work, and Gwen had too much of Arthur’s absences—even with her it wasn’t what he’d hoped for. It was always _pleasant_ but not exciting, and Arthur had thought that maybe that’s just what sex was all about, at least for him.

And now, _fuck_ , there’s this boy. _This_ _kid_ , Arthur reminds himself. And it’s a fever, a frenzied state in which Arthur doesn’t recognize himself anymore. All he knows is that he needs to touch Em again, to have him, to make him his own, to crawl under Em’s skin or devour him in a way that would make Em Arthur’s forever. He’s almost physically sick at the thought that he might not have a chance to kiss Em’s mouth again, or touch his smooth, cool skin, or inhale his scent. He wants it—no, he _needs_ it—and he’s consumed by this overwhelming yearning that he has no idea how to deal with.

He hates losing control like this. That’s why he never takes drugs. He’s the responsible one, the one in charge of the situation, especially of his own mind and body. So the thing that’s just happened between him and Em is not only unreasonable, it’s _unacceptable_. What was he thinking? Why _wasn’t_ he thinking? Thank fuck Arthur wasn’t breaking the law, but there’s no reason for a thirty-year-old, mature adult to debauch a teenager!

The reality of it is overwhelming to Arthur. He feels sick, shivering as he gets into the shower to warm himself up and calm down. He stays in the steamed-up stall until he’s too tired to think.

There’s a beeping sound when he gets out of the bathroom. He checks his phone to find a message from an unknown number.

_I’m sorry. Em_.

Then a second message comes in.

_My number ;-)_

Arthur clutches his phone in a hard grip, trying to force himself to tap the delete button next to Em’s phone number. Instead, he reads it over and over again until it’s imprinted in his memory. He wishes none of this had happened, and yet he wants more. He’s buzzing with the want for more.

He stares at the number until the mobile screen goes dark and finally shuts off completely.


	4. Muirden

Arthur sighs and closes the browser tab. All his Internet research about magical ones has given him nothing but obvious, meaningless results and hasn’t provided a reasonable explanation for Muirden’s actions.

He rubs his eyes, rolls the tip of his tongue over his teeth, and blows out air, resisting the urge to just lay his head down on the table, laptop and all. Maybe he should just give up for the night and move to the couch to give in to the familiar buzz of the sports channel—discussions about player performance, transfers, and current league standings.

Yet, after a while of pointless staring at the keyboard, he takes the laptop, moves into his bedroom, and opens a bookmarked site to a video of two men stroking their cocks. Since his last encounter with Em, he’s been thinking about his sex life. He’s not an idiot—he knows he’s been living in denial. He’s always fancied men, but that’s just not what a Pendragon does. Marry a beautiful girl and have kids—that’s what’s expected of him, and he’s okay with it. It’s not like he doesn’t like women. It’s just that he likes men _more_.

He remembers how guilty-good it felt in school when he and Percy jerked off together behind a toolshed in the school’s garden. He remembers how Percy’s hand looked wrapped around his cock, the thick red head of it disappearing in Percy’s tight fist.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Em’s lips, full and pliant under his own. He thinks of the wet spot on Em’s trousers and lets his hand wander down his body, inside his jeans as he palms his cock and tugs on it. He still doesn’t remember much from the night at the club, but he does recall Em’s soft skin and strong hands that gripped his hips. He yearns to know how it would feel to have Em’s cock in his mouth, or even more—how it would feel to turn around and let Em spread him and fuck him hard against a wall…

“Fuck,” Arthur grunts, spilling over his hand. He sits up and grips his hair, mindless of the mess, and clenches his eyes tight. “Fuck,” he whispers, and it sounds too loud in the silent bedroom.

xxx

As days pass Arthur feels more and more restless. During business hours he at least has something to occupy his mind, but nights? Nights leave him gasping, writhing in the sheets damp from his sweat. The image of Em’s body—of his dark-blue eyes and his long graceful limbs—burns through Arthur’s mind.

He hasn’t jerked off this much since he was fifteen.

Having Em’s phone number doesn’t help. It’s not like Arthur has a reason to call him. Em’s a practicing sorcerer: a permanent House resident who earns his living performing magical rituals in clubs. There’s nothing to justify Arthur’s connection to him. Uther would be furious if he caught Arthur in a sexual relationship with a magical person, especially a teenaged one, _especially a boy_ , and Arthur’s sick from even thinking about his father’s disappointment with him and all the possible repercussions of it.

But then Leon calls.

“Edwin Muirden is out,” he says without preamble.

“He’s being released? How the fuck is that possible?” Arthur stands up in agitation and sits back down again.

“He’s been thoroughly interviewed and scanned for signs of magic use, but he hadn’t used any spells. The authorities think he was all talk, that he wouldn’t really have done anything.”

_This is unbelievable_ , Arthur thinks. “Oh, come on! The maniac detonated a fucking bomb and they say he’s not a real threat?” He stands up again and starts pacing. “I mean, he would’ve detonated it if… Jesus! He had a bomb, for fuck’s sake!”

“The C-4 he was carrying was real, but the possession of it is not enough to keep him locked up. Someone has paid bail for him; apparently he’s got some friends. He’s under house arrest until his trial.” There’s a pause and then Leon adds quietly, “Have you read any papers other than Uther’s? They say Muirden was right to stand up for the magical ones. That the cause justifies his actions.”

“Well, that’s not the way to do it! And he’s a dangerous man! I was there and I know what he’s capable of.”

“Of course it’s not the way to do it. And yes, I do think he’s dangerous,” Leon agrees. “Have you thought about that security detail again? I’d be calmer with one of my men watching after you.”

“I don’t want to be under surveillance,” Arthur huffs.

“Fine. Just… think about it, okay? I gotta go now.”

Arthur hangs up and stares at his phone for a while. He chooses Em’s number from the contact list. His thumb hesitates over the call button before he switches to text and taps, _Muirden’s out. Thought you’d like to know_.

The instant reply startles him so much he almost drops the phone when it buzzes in his hand.

_No fckng way!_

_Way. Bailed out, home awaiting trial_ , Arthur types back.

There’s no reply this time.

It’s past seven and Arthur’s entering the lift to grab some dinner when another text beeps. _Going 2 go tlk 2him. wanna come w/me?_

Arthur stands in front of the lift. The doors open and then close again, and Arthur’s still standing there, staring at the shiny surface of the polished metal. His thumb is stroking his phone’s smooth case.

_Yes._ He presses send and punches the lift’s button once more.

xxx

Arthur wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. His teeth almost chatter, he’s so anxious. This is just ridiculous. He’s held annual presentations for executives, he’s given speeches in front of his _father_ , yet he’s almost hyperventilating because he’s about to meet up with a teenage boy he’s had sex with—twice. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a gentle voice behind him says, “Hi!”

“Jesus, Em, do you always sneak up on people?” he says, making sure he sounds annoyed enough to cover up the fact that he’s actually breathless at seeing Em again.

“No?” Em answers, and bites his lower lip as if he’s uncertain of it. He motions towards the building. “You comin’?”

He looks so good in his skinny jeans, red shirt with some band’s name on it, and unzipped black hoodie, that Arthur would rather drag him somewhere else, lay him pliant on a bed, and disrobe him bit by bit, revealing more and more of that luscious skin. He almost forgets what they’re here for.

“Shouldn’t we though, I don’t know, be careful?” he asks. “Take some precautions?”

“Why?” Em asks, already heading through the entry.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Em looks back at Arthur without stopping. “Oh, Edwin isn’t dangerous.”

“The maniac blew us up!” Arthur says, but Em just winks and waits for Arthur to catch up with him before he leans and whispers in Arthur’s ear, “You’re safe with me, I promise.” Arthur swallows, heat overflowing his body, hitting his cheeks, making his insides _burn._ But there’s no time to dwell on the feeling as they’re already inside the building.

The staircase smells like cat piss, mold, and damp soiled rags as they climb up the stairs to the top floor. Dried plants are sticking out of their pots next to a mountain bike and an old, scratched cupboard standing on the landing. The doorbell doesn’t work, so Em knocks. There’s shuffling behind the door, then the door opens a crack and Muirden’s scarred face peers out.

He’s casting glances around as if he expects to see someone spying on them. “What do you want?”

“May we come in for a minute?” Em asks, and Muirden pushes the door out a little more to see Arthur standing behind.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Muirden still doesn’t make a move to invite them inside.

“We just want to talk to you,” Em says. “Please?”

Finally, the door opens wide, and Muirden steps aside to let them in.

They follow him through a claustrophobic, dark hall with a patterned rug on the floor that has seen better days, into a small main room cluttered with mismatched furniture, books, and bric-a-brac. The light is dimmed, sunlight dispersed by cheesecloth curtains stained with cigarette smoke. The old wooden parquet creaks underneath the faded carpet, and as they take careful steps, little clouds of dust rise into the air, filling it with the smell of stale fabric and floor polish. It reminds Arthur of his old nanny who used to bring him to her place when he was little. Muirden, however, is not an old guy; Arthur suspects he’s right around thirty-five, forty maybe. It’s hard to tell with all the obtruding scars. Still, the whole setting—the flower-patterned couch with velvety cushions on it, the porcelain plates on display in the china cabinet, a painting of the Virgin Mary in a gilded frame—is somehow incongruous.

Em sits down on the couch and Arthur follows while Muirden rattles around the cupboards in the adjoining kitchenette. He comes back carrying a tray with mismatched china cups filled with pale liquid.

“Sorry, I’ve only herbal. Hope it’s okay.” He puts the tray down on a little table in front of the couch and stands there awkwardly.

They all fall silent. Arthur thinks it’s surreal to sit on this flower-patterned couch in the company of his teenage, impromptu lover and the terrorist who tried to kill them. Is there a protocol in a situation like this? Arthur looks at Em, hoping he’ll have a clue how to behave, what to say.

“Listen,” Em starts at the same time Muirden says, “I’m sorry.”

“Edwin.” Em’s voice is calm, gentle, and Arthur remembers how friendly Em was to Muirden back in the TV studio. Then, he had thought it was just a ploy to negotiate. Now, however, he sees that Em probably cares about Muirden, which, frankly, is beyond Arthur’s understanding. “I need to make sure you don’t tell anyone I was in the Camelot building the other day,” Em says.

Muirden shakes his head. “Hasn’t it come up in the scan?”

“I didn’t go back to the House.”

“What did you do in there, exactly though?”

“It’s… ah, not important right now. Nothing happened in the end. That’s what matters, right?” Em says it slowly, as if talking to a child. “Did Mordred talk to you after—?”

“No,” Muirden says.

“And before?”

“Well, he did come to my shop some time ago.” Muirden drags out the words.

Em’s silent, but the way he casts a sharp glance at Arthur makes him think of a huge “I knew it!” sign hanging in the air.

“What did he want?” Em asks when Muirden isn’t providing anything more.

“He had a prescription for eye drops. He wanted a pack of condoms.” Edwin smirks and Arthur isn’t sure if the guy’s omitting the answer because he’s dumb or just teasing.

Em rolls his eyes. “And?”

“Does it matter now?” There’s a spike of anger or exasperation in Muirden’s voice, followed by an abrupt wave of his hand. The sleeve of his shirt rolls up, revealing more scars covering the skin up to the elbow. There’s a scent of vinegar when he moves, as if he’s soaked his skin in it.

“Yes. Yes, it does. Because if it’s him who made you—” Em starts, but Muirden doesn’t let him finish.

“I told you. No one’s made me do _anything_. Why is it so hard for you to get that I had the right to do it? You followed me. You kept distracting me. You wouldn’t shut up. You’ve ruined it all. And now you’re bringing _him,”_ he motions towards Arthur,“out of all the people...”

“Why me?” Arthur asks.

“What?” Muirden turns to him.

“Why did you want _me_ dead?”

Edwin walks the few steps to Arthur, stands over him, and when he starts talking again it’s as if he’s spitting words like venom.

“Oh, there are so many reasons why you should not exist, Arthur Pendragon. You’re a mother-killer, for a start. You are an _abomination_.”

It feels like whiplash. Arthur’s been dealing all his life with the fact that he was the cause of his mother’s death in childbirth. He’s always been the object of Uther’s silent hatred. His father has hidden it, buried it deep, yet it’s still there—Arthur knows it.

“Fuck you, Edwin,” Em says, and Edwin smiles, his burnt, deformed lips stretching over his teeth.

“He should know about this. How his father bribed, begged and threatened until the High Priestess did what he asked for—until she blessed his infertile wife with the magic of Mother Earth and planted the seed inside her dry womb. How Ygraine Pendragon sustained the pregnancy with the essence of her life while her son grew, parasite that he was.”

“This is impossible. Uther hates magic, he’d never ask for anything like this,” Arthur chokes out.

“Oh, people like your father, they think that they know it all, that they have some utter right to bend people to their will. But magic, Arthur, _magic_ is a natural force. The levels of energy have to be evened up. Mother Earth, in order to give a life, has to take a life. _You_ are why she died, and it’s Uther who put you there.”

Arthur is beginning to understand now. No wonder his father wants magic to be forgotten, buried just as his mother is buried, along with all the memories, no matter whether they’re good or bad. But he can’t think about it right now, he _refuses_ to think about it, not here, not with this insane man in front of him.

“But how could Uther ever agree to such a thing?” he whispers, not believing his father would sacrifice Ygraine’s life for anything in the world, not even him.

“Because he was overconfident and wouldn’t listen to a single word he was told. And yet, it’s us, magical ones, who are innocent casualties of his arrogance. He turned on magic and incited the Riots. The death of my own mother is a consequence of Uther’s decisions, Arthur. Do you see this?” He motions to himself, his face twisted in bitterness. “ _This_ is the price for your birth.”

The air is crackling with tension; little sparks of magic are jumping on Muirden’s hands. Arthur holds his breath.

Em stands up and Muirden stills, then takes two steps back until he’s pushed against the cupboard by the wall. He looks defeated, as if all the air has deflated out of him all of a sudden.

“I think you need to go now,” he says, barely audible.

Em nods to Arthur. He moves to the hall and Arthur follows him in silence.

“Em!” Edwin calls after them when they’re about to shut the door. Em pauses and looks over his shoulder at Edwin, who’s hunched forward with his arms down and his fingers moving in an anxious, creepy way, as if they are a bunch of pink worms crawling up his body.

They almost start to walk again when Edwin finally mutters, “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Em says, his head down, already moving towards the stairs.

xxx

Cold, early-spring rain starts to dribble as they exit the building, and Em pulls his hood up while he lingers by the wall. Arthur stands next to him, feeling the icy drops soak his collar. He feels his lips tremble, hands too. At least Em doesn’t look as if he wants to flee—the way he usually does. He’s biting his lip, lost in thought, or maybe giving Arthur some space to get himself together.

“Would you like to go for a coffee?” he finally asks and Arthur replies, “Yeah, sure,” even though he knows that he probably shouldn’t agree.

Ten minutes later, after a hurried walk in the drizzling rain, they stand in a brightly lit coffee shop—all white furniture, glossy surfaces and pastel-coloured cupcakes on the counter.

“What would you like?” Arthur asks.

“Um, I don’t know. A croissant? With chocolate.” Em’s shrugging off his hoodie; a strip of skin catches Arthur’s attention as Em’s T-shirt gets dragged up along with it.

They order and sit on benches installed in a bay window.

“So, will you be okay?” Em asks. “You know it’s not like he says.”

But Arthur doesn’t want to talk about it. “What’s with Muirden’s apartment?” he asks instead when they finally get their coffee and Em’s croissant.

“What do you mean?” Em blows on his coffee, takes a sip, winces, and puts it back on the table.

“It’s just kind of strange to see him surrounded by all the porcelain and flowers and… you know.” Arthur waves his hand, making a circle in the air. “I expected a post-industrial building, something dark and _Fight Club-y_.”

“I don’t think Edwin is a Taylor kind of guy.” Em laughs and Arthur’s pleasantly surprised the boy got the reference.

He shakes his head. “He seemed pretty psychotic to me.”

“Well, yeah. Maybe.” Em focuses on stirring the coffee after putting some ridiculous amount of sugar in it, then starts playing with the empty sugar packets. “Anyway,” he says, “it was his grandma’s place. She passed away this year. I guess she was keeping him in check? Now, it’s only him left.”

“He said… how did his mother die? And what happened to _him_?”

“He was in the Riots of ‘92. But I don’t know much about it,” Em continues. “Just that his parents died. Freya, my friend, says that they were burned to death, and he tried to put out the fire with his hands.”

“Jesus. Is that why he wanted to burn the station instead of—I don’t know—cast some deadly spell on all of us? He’s a sorcerer, right?”

Em looks up, startled. “Edwin’s a healer. He wouldn’t be able to cast _deadly_ spells.”

“A healer?”

“Just a minor one. You know, herbs, enhanced with a bit of magic. He works at this pharmacy. Why?”

“No. It’s just…” It’s not what Arthur would have believed about a terrorist. But, he guesses, no one’s born to be one.

Arthur takes a sip of his cooling coffee. “And this Mordred guy you mentioned. Is he the same one I’ve met in the mall? Is he your boyfriend?”

“No. He’s a… friend of mine. We used to be, like, together. A bit. But now? I don’t know. He wants us to fight for our rights. The magical ones, that is. To be out and proud.” He snorts. “Without hiding, or checking in at the Houses, and such.”

“How is it to live in a House?” Arthur asks. He’s read so many horrible things about it—about people being held there against their will, dark magic flowing around the rooms, the Elders making the pupils do their bidding like slaves.

Em shrugs, looks up at Arthur, and shrugs again. “I don’t know. Good? I think. Have you been to boarding school?” And at Arthur’s nodding, “So, I hear it’s kind of like that. It’s pretty normal. Depends on which Elder you get. Mine—Nimueh—is pretty okay. Why?”

“I just. I heard about… bad stuff in there.”

“Well, it can get unpleasant. But at least they teach us something useful. _Sometimes_.”

He laughs, his face lighting up, making Arthur breathless. He probably should be upset, shattered after all the revelations of tonight, but maybe he’s in shock, or maybe he’s just stupid and horny, because he can’t concentrate when Em’s picking at his croissant, covering his fingers in chocolate which Em starts licking off, one by one. Arthur realises their conversation ended some time ago and he’s just watching Em’s tongue dart and drag along the pale fingers.

_This is obscene_ , he thinks. It must be premeditated. And sure enough, when he looks up there’s something mischievous in Em’s eyes.

“You wanna…?” Em asks and holds the croissant over the table for Arthur to try, chocolate still smeared on his fingers.

Arthur sits with his mouth agape, his mind prompting him with all kinds of scenarios involving Em’s fingers and chocolate pastry. He manages to shake himself out of it by looking back at Em’s face.

“I’m good,” he says.

“Yes, you are.” Em holds Arthur’s gaze and smiles.

xxx

Later, Arthur will not be able to tell how it happened that he’s got Em splayed out on his bed, all lean limbs and messy hair. He’ll remember crazy kisses at the bus stop while hiding behind the plastic stand; his cold fingers on that bit of Em’s skin on show between his T-shirt and the line of his jeans; the hushed, “Hurry up!” when he drags Em up the stairs, foregoing the lift because if someone sees them he might get _fucking arrested_. He knows that he’s exaggerating, that Em is legal, but that doesn’t change how he feels—a little like a pervert— when he shoves his tongue down Em’s throat, drags his palms over Em’s young body, down his jeans, pushing him into the wall of the stairwell. Once again, it’s a fever that consumes him, making him say stupid things like, “Stay for the night, yeah?” to Em’s, “You want to fuck me?” because his lips tremble and he can’t choke out the “Yes.”

And maybe it shouldn’t be done like this—maybe he should give it more consideration, or, shit, make it more romantic maybe, gentler, slower, but he can’t take his eyes off Em when the boy’s shoving his lube-covered fingers into his arse. He doesn’t hesitate when Em digs his other hand into Arthur’s thigh, urging him forward. He doesn’t stop when Em’s still-slicked palm wraps around Arthur’s cock to guide him in. After that it’s all about the heat, how incredibly tight it is inside, how he doesn’t mind the slamming of their skin when he’s getting deeper.

Em’s leg falls to the ground and Arthur grabs it, holds it next to his hip, thrusts again while his hair sticks to his forehead and drips of sweat trickle down his temples. Em’s head is tilted back, long neck exposed, and Arthur leans forward to trail his fingers there, still unsure, barely touching the skin.

“This…” Em says, opening his mouth wider, and Arthur loses himself in the movement of their bodies as he pushes in again and again, the world getting blurry and hot around them.

Arthur doesn’t care what he looks like when waves of orgasm contort his face, doesn’t wonder if it’s normal to place his hand in the wet mess on Em’s stomach, smear the semen there before licking his palm to have a taste. Em takes his hand, pulls it to his lips, and darts his tongue out, the soft caress of it tickling the skin where he’s tracing the drops of come.

Arthur closes his eyes.

xxx

He wakes up because he’s too hot, tangled up in a double layer of duvet because Em must’ve thrown his part of it on him sometime during the night. He sits up and watches Em as he lies there naked, sprawled on the bed on his back, arms outstretched and legs opened shamelessly, his flaccid cock lying on his thigh on display. He looks so peaceful like this with his lips parted, breathing deep and even.

It’s been so long since Arthur last shared his bed with anyone, and maybe it should feel awkward or strange, but it’s oddly comforting, like a balm being poured on Arthur’s nerve endings, lulling him back to sleep. Arthur’s about to give in to that feeling and lie back down, but suddenly a hot wave of guilt washes over him.

_God. What am I doing?_ he thinks. Because Em’s so, so young and so out of Arthur’s world.

Yet somehow Em feels _right,_ familiar—exciting, yes—but safe too. And he doesn’t seem that young either, not when he falls silent and looks at Arthur thoughtfully. In a way, he appears much older than Arthur. Ancient. But maybe it’s just Arthur’s wishful thinking because he should know better than to debauch a sixteen-year-old boy. Even if that boy seems to know way more about sex than Arthur. It’s apparent in the way Em moves—all confidence, at ease with his body, bold in a way that comes with experience. It’s in the way he’s not ashamed of rearranging them into different positions or exposing himself—fuck, _touching himself_ —in front of Arthur in the most intimate way, something Arthur would never do. It’s also in the way Em’s not muting his noises: all those little gasps and half-moans and mumblings of words not discernible, yet important and so very arousing.

Arthur wants to go back to sleep, but all the thoughts are standing up in angry rows in his head, pounding and crowded. He tries to focus on Em’s breathing, willing his own to match it, but by the time he’s finally reached a state close to relaxation, his alarm-clock is announcing six o’clock and it’s time to get up. He leaves Em stirring in the bed and goes to the kitchen to prepare toast and tea.

The lack of sleep should make him feel heavy and nauseated, but instead he wants to do _all the things_ at once. Run, eat, work, smile.

xxx

Em looks beautifully dishevelled when he appears in the kitchen door in only his boxers and T-shirt, his hair sticking up in every direction. He appears even more achingly young, too, which Arthur tries to ignore.

He passes Em a plate with buttered toast and hesitates. “Bacon?”

“M’vegetarian,” Em says, and _of course_ _he’s a vegetarian_.

“Figures,” Arthur murmurs. He peeks into the fridge. “Cheese? Marmolade?”

“Marmolade’s fine.” Em settles himself on a stool and digs into the jar Arthur’s placed on the counter. “S’good,” he mumbles around the food.

“Martha, my cleaning lady, makes it.” Arthur grins, because yes, it’s a good marmolade and it’s even better to watch Em eat it. Arthur thinks he’s developing an Em-is-eating fetish since he can’t take his eyes off Em as he licks the teaspoon, or sips the tea with his eyes closed, like a cat who’s been offered warm cream.

Arthur has to hurry up for the office, but he lingers in the kitchen. Awkwardness creeps in on them, ties their tongues and makes their bodies go rigid.

“I…” Arthur starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. What does one say in the morning after the most erotic experience of one’s life? _Hey mate, been a pleasure, let’s do it again sometime?_

“There’s this play I want to see tonight. Nothing fancy, probably, it’s just a monodrama really, but maybe you’d like to go? With me?” Em asks, and Arthur’s not a theatre man, not at all; in fact he absolutely loathes theatre, dies from second-hand embarrassment each time actors play anything emotional, or, God forbid, do any kind of weird, arty, naked things on the stage—but he’ll go, of course he’ll go.

“A theatre date?” He smiles. “I’d love to.”

He feels dizzy, lightheaded. He will regret it. He shouldn’t allow it. But against his better judgement, and despite how inappropriate the whole thing is, he’s doing it.

Whatever it is, they’re totally doing it.


	5. The Boat

“Let’s go somewhere, yeah?” Arthur says, stroking Em’s arm as they lie together on the couch in Arthur’s place. The TV’s on, zombies chasing Rick again, but Arthur isn’t watching. He feels that sick longing that he’s had in him since the first time he saw Em. He’d like to pull on Em’s arms and grab him, squeeze him tight until Em would be all his, as close as possible. It’s a state of desperation Arthur’s never experienced before. It’s terrifying. It’s stealing his breath and bringing tears into his eyes.

“Where?” Em asks, distracted because Rick’s just killed Shane. “And what the fuck is even going on in this show?”

“I don’t know. Just somewhere, Arthur says, ignoring Em’s exclamations.

He just needs to get out of London. Because nothing is easy.

The last few weeks have been a constant dance of work and school schedules and avoiding neighbours. Em’s been sneaking in during the evenings and going back to the House in the middle of the night, taking a cab on Arthur’s insistence, or on rare occasions staying alone inside Arthur’s apartment for the day, waiting for him to come home from work.

Arthur has never had to hide before. He’s the golden boy, proper behaviour and all. It’s killing him to keep this relationship a secret. He hasn’t even told Leon. Or Gwen. _No one_ can know. His fingers clench tight on Em’s arm, but Em doesn’t stir, doesn’t complain. It’s as if he gets it.

Em leans in for a kiss and Arthur realises the TV show’s ended.

“Need to run. See you tomorrow, yeah?” Em says.

“Wish you could stay.” He’s _not_ whining.

“I know. Need to go for my scan though. I missed the one yesterday. Nimueh is lenient, but I don’t want to push it. I gotta check on Mordred, too. He’s been down lately and it’s never good when he feels depressed.”

Em’s stalling though. Arthur can see he doesn’t want to go either, so he catches the edges of Em’s hoodie, pulling him closer.

“And you need to sleep,” Em murmurs into Arthur’s neck.

That’s true. This is the least Arthur’s slept in his life. He feels rested though. Good. Amazing, really. Focused and full of energy. Invincible.

Still, he knows it’s just a matter of time before someone finds out—a neighbour will notice Em going up or down the stairs, a cab driver will remember the address. Anything can happen. So every single minute with Em feels as if it’s a stolen one and Arthur wants to make as much as he can out of this borrowed time. Even as they were watching Rick slaying the zombies all Arthur could concentrate on were the expressions on Em’s face—the twitch of the skin around his eyes when he smiled, the widening of his pupils when he got startled by the action.

He wants more. More time, more space.

“I have this yacht,” he says hesitantly.

Em leans into him, smelling like sleepy sex and chocolate—because he’s always eating chocolate. It’s a wonder he hasn’t turned into a giant chocolate bar by now. “Yacht?”

“We could maybe just… go for a weekend?” And suddenly he dreads the answer because maybe Em doesn’t see this thing the same way. Maybe it’s a stupid idea. After all, he’s not sure what this is between them, and they’ve never talked about what Em wants.

“I’d love to go yachting with you.” Em’s laughing, but it’s good because there’s a kiss following, and a smile that’s a promise. “I’ll sort it out with the House for next weekend, okay?”

 xxx

It isn’t really a yacht. It’s an old, small sailing boat. Uther bought it long before Arthur was born, to sail with his fiancée. He didn’t have obscene amounts of money back then—just enough so he could afford the luxury of a boat and mooring for it. So it’s quite modest, with a small cabin where Arthur can’t even stand up straight, a manually operated centreboard, and a narrow sleeping compartment in the bow. Still, it looks elegant, painted in white with blue stripes along the sides and the name “Ygraine” written in curly golden letters across one of the stripes.

Arthur has no idea why Uther would keep it after so many years since he no longer uses it, but they have an unspoken agreement that the boat is Arthur’s to do with as he pleases, even if it’s still Uther who pays for the mooring in the summer and storage in the winter.

Arthur has only one blurry childhood memory connected to the boat—of him in a stiff orange life vest sitting in the open area on the deck and gripping the edges of his seat tightly. His father held the tiller in one hand and the mainsheet in the other, keeping the rope under his foot so it wouldn’t slip out. The wind was too strong, the sky darkened, and the water wrinkled in nasty waves. Uther had trouble keeping the boat upright and it listed dangerously to the side. Arthur, scared out of his mind but doing his best to not show it, moved as quickly as possible under the boom, trying to provide whatever ballast his tiny body could give.

“Get inside!” Uther commanded after Arthur failed to scramble fast enough to the starboard, and Arthur crawled into the cabin, sat on one of the padded benches, and gave in to his panic, shrieking each time the boat leaned to the side enough that there was water visible in narrow windows.

But that was ages ago, long before Arthur started sailing with his friends, or rather with Leon, with gallons of beer and piles of canned food to keep them company.

Arthur’s thrilled to see _Ygraine_ looks as well as this old lady can. Arthur strokes the edge of the boat reverently before he jumps inside and takes out the little key to the cabin.

“Hop in!” He waves to Em who’s standing there, hesitating. Arthur stops struggling with the key for a minute and holds his hand out for Em, to help him board from the pier.

“Here you go, my lady.” He smirks, and is rewarded with, “Shut up!” and a shove on the arm.

“Come on, help me with this.” Arthur motions to the cabin door. “It’s a bit stuck.”

Finally, with much effort and cursing, they manage to open it.

“Be my guest.” Arthur invites Em to go inside first. “I’ll go fetch our bags.”

There isn’t much space inside, so Arthur just throws their bags on the floor. He tosses cans of beer and soda, and the few groceries they’ve taken with them into the tiny fridge, all the while casting glances at Em, who’s behaving like a curious puppy, touching everything, opening compartments under the benches and over the windows.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Em asks.

“There isn’t one,” Arthur answers.

“So, where…?”

“You spoiled child of modern luxurious times,” Arthur says, making it sound haughty, but he’s smiling. “If we’re in a port you can use a bathroom on shore. If we stop by the woods—woods it is. And while on the water, well… water.”

“And for, you know… Number two?” Em asks with such a horrified expression on his face Arthur can’t stop laughing. He opens one of the compartments and takes out a small spade.

“You just dig a hole in the woods.”

“What if it’s during the night?” Em looks even more uncertain.

“You wait till morning or take a flashlight with you and pray your bony arse doesn’t get bitten off by the mosquitos. Seriously, Em, haven’t you ever gone camping? Like in the boy scouts or something? You’re supposed to be the country boy, and me the city kid here!”

“Fuck, it’s not medieval times, despite what you may think of my village!” Em huffs. “We do actually have bathrooms and running water in our houses, you know.”

xxx

_My God, what bliss,_ Arthur thinks, lying down next to Em, who’s listening to his _very important_ and chaotic music with his eyes closed, sprawled on the deck like a cat in the sun. It’s warm, but not too hot. _And so quiet,_ Arthur muses. The water, lazily splashing in small waves against the edge of the boat, reflects the sun. It makes repetitive, lapping noises that lull Arthur so he’s half asleep. Arthur can hardly keep his eyelids open, but he doesn’t want to lose sight of Em—his full, parted lips, long dark eyelashes, beautiful sharp cheekbones.

This weekend is like stolen time in paradise with Em within reach of Arthur’s hand. There are no angry e-mails, constant phone calls, people expecting things of him. He gets a few days without his father’s disappointed look, and without the constant knot in his stomach because of all the noisy thoughts in his head. He’ll deal with all that when they get back. For now, he just breathes and allows himself to enjoy this rare, carefree time.

He feels the gentle touch of fingers on his arm and realises he must have dozed off. Em has taken off his headphones and is smiling in that inviting, mischievous-yet-innocent way only he can smile. Arthur threads his fingers into Em’s, sighing. He wouldn’t mind this particular moment to freeze in time so he could stay like this forever—floating in the delight.

But Arthur isn’t a patient man and can only stay motionless for so long. So he props himself up and leans over to kiss Em—first on the lips, gently, then on the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, then his neck. Em stretches underneath him, straightening his arms far behind his head, and Arthur moves down Em’s body, nuzzling in his armpits, which are shaved smooth and hairless, and just so sweet and perfect Arthur can’t help himself. He leans in more and first kisses, then licks the clean, warm skin there, relishing the boyish scent.

“Perv.” Em squirms underneath Arthur and giggles, but Arthur holds Em’s arms tight, not letting him go. His cock is hard and throbbing as he pushes his hips into Em’s thigh while he’s licking, nibbling, and even lightly biting the soft, intimate flesh of Em’s pits. Em isn’t laughing anymore. He lies still, with his eyes closed and lips parted wide, small breaths escaping his mouth.

Arthur grinds his hips into Em and moves so their clothed cocks brush against each other. He wants to be naked, but can’t be bothered with undressing and hiding inside the cabin. So he continues with the motion of his hips, and after some time he feels Em shudder and then go still underneath him, the warm wetness seeping between them. He wants it, too, and allows himself to let go, breathing hot on Em’s skin, his face buried under Em’s arms, all wrapped in Em’s scent.

xxx

“Let’s go inside,” Arthur murmurs in Em’s ear after the sun is getting too low to keep them warm.

“Why?” Em mumbles sleepily, lulled by the sun, the orgasm, and the gentle motion of the boat.

“Because I want to lick you all over and I can’t do it here. Not out in the open, where people on the other boats can see, unless it’s what turns you on.”

Em laughs, but he lets Arthur drag him into the sleeping compartment in the front part of the boat. It’s hot inside, and the still air smells like epoxy, plastic, and synthetic fibres. The water splashes under the hull in a rhythmical motion. Orange light shines through the small windows on the sides of the bed that occupies the entire compartment.

“What?” Em asks while Arthur’s pushing him farther up the bed.

Arthur lies on top of him and kisses him, long and hard, licking his way inside Em’s mouth, but it’s too hot in the cabin to stay like this, with bodies pressed tightly together. So Arthur scoots down, taking off Em’s swimming shorts on the way. He licks Em’s belly, then he reaches the inner part of Em’s thighs where skin meets skin and nuzzles Em’s balls and the underside of his cock. Somehow he can never get enough of touching Em like this.

He pushes down his own shorts, trapping his cock between his body and the sheets while he licks and nibbles on Em’s skin, lower and lower, behind Em’s balls, sighing because he _wants_ this so much. He slides his fingers where it’s all wet with his saliva and goes farther and farther behind.

_God_ , Arthur thinks, as he licks the soft flesh. He really doesn’t know why Em shaves himself like this—all bare except for a small patch of dark hair above his cock. Is it because he needs it for his rituals, or simply because he likes it, or maybe even for Arthur? Because he loves it so much—this naked skin, young and soft, exposed and beautiful.

He reaches with his fingers, tracing Em’s hole with gentle strokes. Em’s hands fall from Arthur’s hair, where his fingers were loosely threaded. There’s a soft thump when they reach the mattress. And then there’s a gasp when Arthur’s mouth follows his fingers.

Arthur never suspected he’d be able to do this, that he’d be _willing_ to do this, but now, now it’s all he can think about. He needs it, he needs to get more of Em, to get deeper, to just take him. He pushes Em’s legs with his other hand to make him open up even more for him as he presses his tongue to Em’s entrance, all the time kneading the firm yet soft flesh of Em’s buttocks, spreading them wider.

And when Em moans deeply—and there’s something primal about it, but also a trace of Arthur’s name in that moan—Arthur can’t contain himself. He reaches between his own legs, squeezes the head of his cock and comes, breathing in Em’s skin, trying to push inside Em as far as he can, to fuck him deep with his tongue.

Arthur’s hand is wet and sticky with his come as he brings it up again, rubbing the seed into Em’s opening, sliding his finger deep inside and withdrawing it only to lick again, taste himself in there and then push the finger back, trying to get it inside along with the tip of his tongue.

Em is, surprisingly, almost completely still, but when Arthur glances up he sees that his eyes are opened wide and he’s staring somewhere in space while his fists are gripping the sheets hard, twisting them. His lips are parted and Arthur can see a glimpse of teeth, the tip of pink tongue, and this view makes him harden again.

“Oh Gods,” Em whispers. “Don’t stop. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”

And so Arthur dives again, pushing his fingers deep inside the tight heat of Em’s body, curling them and rubbing, and licking at the edges. Then he sucks on Em’s balls, rolling them under his tongue. He never stops the thrusting, slow movement of his fingers inside Em when he licks up the shaft of Em’s cock and then takes the whole length into his mouth. And repeats and repeats until Em’s calling his Gods as if he’s in pain and fills Arthur’s throat with his come. Arthur swallows it all—every last drop, licking until Em’s too sensitive to go on.

When Arthur finally crawls up to lie next to Em their breaths haven’t steadied yet. Em’s eyes are closed tight now, but his hands are still gripping the sheets.

“God, your smell, your _taste_ , Em,” Arthur says. They lie next to each other, barely touching, their bodies still warm and sticky in the heat of the small cabin. Eventually they doze off, and when Arthur wakes up his mouth is dry and his hair sticks to his face when he tries to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Hungry?” he asks, roughly.

“Hm?” Em stirs beside him and blinks, hazy blue eyes still sleepy and a little dazed, long eyelashes casting deep shadows in the fading, yellow light of the cabin.

Arthur feels a wave of tender emotion wrapping him tightly.

“You hungry?” he repeats, reaching with his hand and thumbing Em’s lips in a gentle caress.

“A little bit. I guess. Thirsty more.”

Arthur slowly crawls out of the bed. He opens the fridge, takes out two Cokes, and hands one of them to Em, who scoots down the bed and sits now on the edge, roughing his hair in an absentminded way.

“Jesus, Arthur,” he mumbles. “Fuck me. That was. Just. _Fuck me_.”

Arthur laughs and can’t help himself when he says, “Yeah, maybe a little bit later. Give an old man some time to recover!”

Later on, after they’ve dug out and inhaled the contents of their canned meals—a suspicious-looking veggie thing for Em and a quite decent meat stew for Arthur—they do a quick wash in the cold water and retreat to the cabin, closing it meticulously against the evening chill.

The ceiling is low but the bed is cosy and Arthur thinks he could stay here with Em forever, just stroking his cool skin and listening to his breathing. If he could, he’d wipe out the boundaries between their bodies—crawl up inside Em’s skin or make Em enter him and somehow stay like this, joined and just… _together._ He wants Em inside him in every possible way, never letting go, never abandoning him.

“Em?” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

“Can you do the thing you did in the club? You know… the magic?”

Em moves his hands slowly up Arthur’s body. “Yeah.” He nods on Arthur’s chest.

The light coming from the boat’s windows is dim now, and everything is in that shadowy state where colours are greyed out and things seem to change shapes, moving and transforming into something else, opening up to other dimensions. Arthur sees Em sitting up—lean, shimmering, and somewhat blurry and unreal in this lighting. He feels the magic spreading from Em’s fingers up his chest, buzzing in him, waking up every part of his body, and gasps when it reaches his throat and cock at the same time. His head is spinning, so he closes his eyes and allows the tingling magic to swirl through his whole body, fill him up the way he felt filled the first time he met Em. It’s pure bliss mixed with an almost spiritual connection to Em. He surrenders his will to Em, letting it go, allowing Em to disassemble each part of his body and place it back the way Em wants it, the way it needs to be done.

The air smells of magic and wet earth and come, and Arthur falls in what feels like melted caramel, thick and smooth, and he lies still, not wanting this to be over, ever.

“Open your eyes.” He hears Em’s warm voice and struggles to move his heavy lids.

“Arthur, open your eyes.”

There is an edge of worry there, so Arthur gathers all the strength he has in him and looks at Em, who’s hovering over him, naked and glorious, wearing this sweet, concerned expression on his face.

“M’okay,” Arthur mumbles and Em smiles at him. “You glow,” Arthur notices.

“What?” Em’s laughing now, all relaxed and just shining.

“You do. Each time you do magic like this—it’s not just your eyes. I see the golden something on my skin when you touch me, and it’s inside me. I’m _leaking_ it now.” He moves his arm in front of Em’s face, turning his palm to prove it. Little currents of golden streaks are moving along his skin, dripping from his fingers. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it.” There’s a pleading in his voice, meaning, _Please don’t tell me I’ve gone mad_.

“Yeah, I see it,” Em admits softly. He takes Arthur’s hand and kisses his fingers. It feels intimate and innocent, but when Em sucks Arthur’s fingers inside his mouth it becomes hot and erotic, and Arthur can feel his cock filling up again, or maybe it’s been erect all this time—Arthur can’t really tell.

Em guides Arthur’s fingers, slick with saliva, down their bodies, and he moves a bit to make room for Arthur to push them inside him, to slowly work him open once more. Arthur wants to just throw Em on his back, to bury his cock inside that warmth and fuck Em senseless, but he lies still, letting Em still be in charge of this. He watches in amazement as Em guides Arthur’s cock, aligning it with his entrance, and then slowly, so slowly, lowers himself down its length until their bodies meet.

Arthur focuses on Em’s hands, which are back on his chest, warm for a change and a bit damp, while Em braces himself and starts rocking his hips in delicious, slow, deliberate movements.

“God,” Arthur thinks, or maybe says aloud. It seems to go on for ages—their bodies moving in a patient, slow rhythm. A sheen of sweat covers them, making their skin slippery so that Em loses his balance. His hands slide up Arthur’s chest until they are so close again they can feel each other’s breath on their lips. Arthur thrusts up and this is all it takes—this and Em’s little, “ummm”—a moan of pleasure when Arthur’s hand sneaks between their bodies to stroke Em’s cock. Em’s still shuddering when Arthur comes too, deep inside Em’s body, and it lasts and lasts—so long that it’s too much and they both wriggle and Arthur holds his hand up, gasping, “Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.”

Em collapses completely on Arthur and stays like that until the heat of their bodies becomes too uncomfortable, their come sticky and itchy as it dries between them and seeps out of Merlin onto Arthur’s thighs, and they have to move. They lie on their backs, just threading their fingers together to maintain the physical contact.

xxx

The buzz of the intercom catches Arthur just as he’s leaving the apartment. He buzzes Gwen in, wondering what she could possibly want at this ungodly hour.

“I got this this morning,” she says as soon as the door closes behind her, and she hands Arthur an envelope.

Arthur raises his brows and opens the envelope, taking out a stack of pictures. He doesn’t have to look closer to know what they are. His heart _dies._  

His fingers don’t seem to be working properly as he tries to extract the pictures, or the photographs stick to each other, because he has trouble separating them. The letters _Ygraine_ stand out on the pictures like a sharp stamp confirming the reality that’s shown there. It’s so weird to see himself and Em caught in a still frame—their whole bodies touching, legs entwined on the deck of the boat.

He feels as if he’s choking; he’s without air. He sees those pictures in his hand and there’s nothing else in the world but this horrible feeling of _loss_. Because now it’s over.

He looks up to see Gwen, gentle, sweet Gwen, standing there silently, waiting, and he thinks, _God, how she must feel._

“I’m so sorry you had to find out like this. That I’m…” he falters and then, so silently it might as well be inaudible, “…gay.”

“Are you, though?” Gwen asks. “Aren’t you, like, bi? I mean, we’ve…”

He looks at her but there’s no accusation in her eyes, just Gwen asking him.

“I don’t know. I have no idea what I am anymore,” he says, honest.

“May I give you some advice?” Gwen reaches out, fingers curling protectively around his arm. “When you do figure it out, come out on your own terms, okay? I couldn’t stand it if some of those pictures were splashed in the papers.”

Arthur isn’t a celebrity, per se, but something like this could still make the front cover of a competitor’s rag.

“I know,” he says.

Gwen traces the lines of the picture in his hand. “He’s so young, Arthur.”

“He’s legal,” Arthur says defensively, but with small voice. He knows well what it looks like. “He’s magical,” he adds, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, Jesus,” Gwen says, and goes to sit down on the couch. “Uther will kill you. He’ll… I don’t even want to think about what he might do. Luckily, it was our man who took the photos. I’ve got the SD card. But, Arthur, you must do something about it.”

The anger, the impossible anger that’s been building inside of Arthur ever since he started having to hide Em, suddenly finds its way out.

“You think I don’t know that?” he spits. “It’s not like I’ve chosen for this to happen.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve fallen for this magical boy!” Gwen exclaims, pleading, looking hurt.

Arthur stays silent.

“Oh, my God, you have.” She covers her mouth with a hand. Arthur looks down, focusing on a gnarl in the floor. He’ll forever associate this bit of his parquet with the loss of the love he could have had.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says softly, and he looks up to meet her gaze.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” There isn’t anything else to say. 


	6. Summer

“We can’t do this anymore,” Arthur says, feeling like it’s the hardest sentence he’s ever pronounced.

“Do what?” Em’s making himself comfortable on Arthur’s couch, punching the cushions and nesting himself in them.

“This.” Arthur motions to the space between them and gets Em’s attention. Em finally looks at him, his huge blue eyes full of worry. “Us.”

“Why?” Em turns to face Arthur with his whole body. There’s an edge of panic in his voice, and _God_ , this is going to be even harder than Arthur suspected.

Instead of answering, Arthur just hands him the envelope with the photographs. Em takes out the first one—the one with them lying on the deck of the boat, kissing—the one that hurts Arthur the most because it’s as if someone has stolen their intimacy.

“Fuck,” Em says and sits down again, still holding the envelope but not looking at any more pictures. “Fuck.” Then, as he’s struck with another thought, “Will it be published?”

“No. Gwen has taken care of that,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound reassuring though. He’s resigned. He feels so tired, as if the weight of the whole day spent in this horrible tension has just crushed him. He wants to tell Em he’s sorry.

“So, there’s no way…?” Em asks, making a vague movement with his hand. He looks pale and his voice is dangerously close to cracking, making Arthur worry Em’s going to cry. He’s not sure he’s prepared to handle this. He feels close to tears himself as it is. But Em’s so young and Arthur has to be the responsible, wiser one here.

“I can’t see any way out,” he says. “Believe me, I’ve pondered over each and every possibility. But we won’t be able to prevent pictures from being published in the Sun or some other place the next time it happens. My father will fire me.”

Em makes a move to protest, but Arthur continues. “I’ve never…” he starts, pauses to think about it, and then just dives in. “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. Never. But my life isn’t only mine. I’ve got duties, responsibilities. I’ve got my father—”

“Why do you think I feel different about you?” Em interrupts, and Arthur’s heart sinks even more. He hadn’t expected their first confessions to be like this. What’s even worse is that Em’s not giving up. “What if we were really careful? What if we kept our distance in public and met up here at your place to just be?”

Arthur sighs. “I’ve thought about it. Over and over. But I can’t see any reasonable explanation why I would be keeping company with a magical teenager,” he says bitterly. “And Em, hiding like that wouldn’t be fair to you. You need to live, to be out, to be able to do whatever you want. Not sneak up a staircase to spend the night with your secret boyfriend.”

Em is quiet for a moment, but then suddenly he turns around, his whole face lit up as if he’s just been enlightened.

“What if I moved in with you?”

Arthur can’t keep the anger out of his voice when he asks, “Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying? In what universe does your _moving in_ with me help resolve this situation, Em?”

“Well,” Em gestures energetically. “Just think about it! I could be a friend’s son, or a cousin, right? Coming to London to, you know, learn. And you could be helping me out, being good-hearted and shit! Helping out a country boy so I could finish my education at a decent school here in London.”

“But your House here in London isn’t even decent. You said it yourself!”

“Believe me, it’s way better than I could get in other places,” Em says emphatically.

Arthur snorts. “I highly doubt that.”

“Why are we even talking about my school?” Em frowns. “Unless… fuck. You don’t want me to, is that it? You don’t want me here. This is too much for you—”

“No!” Arthur says. And he means it, even though he’s never thought about asking Em to live with him. It’s just impossible, even though hurting Em is killing him. But Em’s wishful thinking is contagious, and now Arthur’s wondering if maybe it _could_ work. It’s hypocrisy, of course, that one can do charity for magical outcasts but can’t associate socially with them. Still, Arthur would need to find a good story to explain to his father why he’s helping out a magical person. Maybe he could say he’s doing it for the sake of research for a documentary?

“Shit,” he says. “I need to think about it. Just… just let’s not get carried away, okay? I can’t think clearly when it comes to you.” Arthur wants to make it sound funny and a bit teasing, but somehow his voice has betrayed him and it comes out soft and full of affection. But if Em’s noticed that he hasn’t reacted.

“Give me five minutes,” Arthur says, walking out of the room and to his bedroom. He sits down on the bed, thinking, going through all the possible scenarios in his head. This could work, this could actually work.

When he finally emerges from the bedroom Em’s asleep on the couch.

For a while Arthur just stands, anxious and still full of adrenaline, watching Em sleep. Then he crouches next to him and kisses him lightly.

“Ummm?” Em mumbles.

“Come to bed. We’ll get your stuff tomorrow.”

“So, I’m moving in?”

“You’re moving in,” Arthur says, smiling.

xxx

“Would it kill you to pick up after yourself just once, _Em_?” Arthur huffs as soon as he enters the flat. He’s undoing his tie and going to the bedroom to put his suit on the rack, where it should be. It’s not that he’s a pedantic, anal person—he just likes order and Em’s things are literally _everywhere_.

“Huh?” Em takes off his headphones.

“The mess?” Arthur points to the papers scattered around, the empty plates with remains of whatever strange and earth-friendly food Em was eating, and the wrinkled clothes on the floor. “Would you mind?”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” Em’s eyes flash gold and everything starts flying in the right direction, putting itself back where it belongs like a slower version of the aftermath of the bomb, only nobody’s life is on the line. Arthur ducks under a bowl of greyish organic cereal.

“That’s cheating,” Arthur says, even though he’ll never stop being impressed by random displays of Em’s magic.

“It’s _efficient_. Would you call a washing machine cheating?”

“Point taken.” Arthur moves to the kitchen and looks into the empty fridge. The only thing in it is some suspicious-looking tofu monstrosity that Arthur won’t dare touch, much less eat.  “Chinese?” he shouts.

“Thanks, I’m good.” Em comes into the kitchen and leans on the counter. “Have to run anyway, for a scan.” Even though Em’s Elder, Nimueh, has allowed him not to live in the House full time, Em’s got to go for his required magic scan every seventy-two hours.

“I hate that leash of yours,” Arthur says.

Em shrugs. “It is what it is. Isn’t your job exactly the same? Try to turn off the phone and stop compulsively checking e-mails every goddamn minute. Then we’ll talk.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but then he thinks Em’s right.

“Okay, gotta go. See you later.” Merlin hops up, supporting his weight on the counter, and kisses Arthur before heading out.

xxx

Just like that, life’s settling in pretty easily. Despite Arthur’s concerns, no one takes much interest in his living arrangements with Em, surprisingly not even Uther. Apparently, people don’t care about things that are right under their noses.

It’s so effortless and familiar to have Em around, to eat take-away in front of the TV, to stumble upon Em soaking in the tub, or to reluctantly leave the bed with Em’s warm body sprawled across the sheets in the mornings because Em never has to get up early. But most of all, it’s so good, so incredibly amazing to be able to scoop Em up in the nights, nuzzle him, and then fuck him slowly until they’re both panting in the pillows, hands sliding clumsily over their bodies and eyes so sleepy they can’t lift the lids.

And Arthur can have it every day now.

Yet, there are parts of living with Em that make him stop and reconsider his life. He never thought of himself as old before Em moved in. He tries to recall what he was like when he was Em’s age, but his teenage years are blurry in his mind. He can remember single events—Leon and him getting so drunk they threw their guts up, or getting punched in the face after hitting on girls at a club, or eating greasy burgers while walking home from a late movie. But mostly he remembers a lot of studying: piles of textbooks thick as bricks and busy summer internships at Camelot Media. Whatever he did, it must have been repetitive and not interesting enough to imprint in his memory. It’s as if huge parts of his life don’t exist at all, or as if he’s spent them in a mindless haze, not feeling, not noticing the world around him while he was too busy focusing on future goals.

Em, though, seems to be forever suspended in the now, even while he seems to be doing nothing. The amount of free time he has to watch TV or listen to music is unbelievable to Arthur. If Arthur actually decided to listen to anything he’d surely do it while doing important things _at the same time._ But to tell the truth, he can’t remember being passionate about music, ever. Not like Em is. Sure, he listened to whatever Leon was listening to, trying to relate to his taste in heavier things and enduring the noises Sepultura or Panthera were making. Personally, he’d rather listen to Pink Floyd if given a choice, but he didn’t want to sound like an old prick. But now Em’s trying to make him feel strongly about what he listens to, as if it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Can you hear the layers in that? Here!” he shouts over the music. He’s really animated and beautiful like this with his lips parted, eyes open wide, and cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Yeah,” Arthur lies, trying to concentrate on the budget he has to e-mail to the office tonight instead of ogling Em.

He wishes he could feel what Em’s experiencing though, so he lets Em drag him to a summer festival near London. Em’s waving his hands and exclaiming loudly over all the names of the bands that are playing that mean nothing to Arthur. But if Em’s so excited, Arthur guesses they must be stars. The day is hot; it’s been like this for weeks now, the air heavy and sticky with the humidity of evening storms. When they reach the place, after what feels like ages of walking, it’s already packed. They pass the first gates and get their tickets scanned.

“In _my day_ they’d allow us to enter with water in plastic bottles,” Arthur observes, but Em just shrugs.

“The airports banned water, too.”

“True.” Arthur nods and lets Em pull him towards a second set of gates where they get checked again. There are people everywhere: walking, standing, sitting on the grass, lying down, sleeping, masses of them moving here and there in a flow. The air smells of sweating bodies, grilled sausages, ketchup, beer, and weed. The rumbling of music comes from the stages—Arthur has counted at least three in his sight.

“Let’s buy something to drink,” Arthur offers and they queue up in a long line for tokens first and for soda later. “What’s wrong with good old money?” Arthur murmurs. “And what’s with taking the caps? Do they expect us to throw bottles at the artists? Are they that bad nowadays?”

“Stop whining like an old man already, will you?” Em laughs.

“I _am_ an old man,” Arthur says, but he’s willing to try to behave.

By the time they’ve reached the huge main stage it’s almost evening and the biggest stars are about to play. They find a vacant spot on the grass. Em sits down with his legs crossed and Arthur joins him, trying to keep as far as possible from a bare-chested, smelly man smoking cigarette after cigarette near them.

It’s still very warm and Arthur closes his eyes for a second, enjoying the evening, the music—which is surprisingly good—and the feeling of Em’s body so near to him. They can’t hold hands, not in public where anyone could snap a picture, but it’s still nice to be able to just do stuff with Em outside of the flat.

The lightshow on the stage is amazing, Arthur thinks, not like anything he’s seen before. Not that he’s seen too many concerts live. Still, lights used to be just lights in his day—they didn’t form animated objects and the screens didn’t fold and warp into different shapes with surreal images scattered across them.

The night is beautiful. The hot air wraps Arthur in a gentle embrace, and little motes of dust swirl in the coloured lights. The music just flowing. It all feels like pure happiness and suddenly Arthur experiences a painful pang of regret—he wishes he was still young, like Em, so he could have more moments like this one. He wants to be as carefree as those around him, just having fun on their long summer break, traveling with backpacks from one festival to another. He’s never had that, and he wishes he could just taste it to see what it’s like. The feeling of a strange loss almost chokes him and his eyes water, but he wipes them, pretending the lights have blinded him.

When the last gig is over they march back to reality in the steady mass of bodies, stumbling on scattered paper cups and plates. Arthur takes Em’s hand in his because no one will see them now, so distant from the faraway glow of stage lights. They reach the nearest gas station, overflowing with people buying beer and snacks, and Arthur manages miraculously to order them a taxi. The music is still humming in Arthur’s ears when they enter the apartment and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like after a long journey. So he takes two cans of beer out of the fridge, which are quickly replaced by two new ones after they’ve drained the first, and soon they are both pretty much hammered, still high on emotions and the warmth of the night.

The sex that follows is full of groping, fleeting orgasms and feels a bit unreal. Arthur keeps loosing focus, his mind drifting into drunken dreams of coloured lights and hot mud underneath his feet.

xxx

“What is _that?”_ Arthur shouts. His sock is soaked after he’s stepped into a bowl of milk next to the front door. “Last time I checked we didn’t have a cat, _Em!_ ”

“Oh this?” Em says, peeking out from the kitchen. “It’s just milk for the Spirits. Midsummer is today.”

“Milk for the Spirits,” Arthur repeats calmly. “ _Of course,_ it’s milk for the Spirits. Do you happen to _see dead people?_ ” he asks.

“Very funny. And I don’t. At least not in the way you think of ghosts.”

“Do your ghosts need to eat off my floor, though? And why does it have to be right here? What’s wrong with the kitchen table?”

“Uh, it’s gotta be on the threshold,” Em starts but then sees Arthur’s expression. “Do I make fun of your religion?”

“That’s because my religion is civilised and not about _superstitions and witchcraft_.”

“Jesus, Arthur! You’re such a prat sometimes. We’re not burning bodies at the stake. Besides, you worship your iPhone like it’s a bloody God—how’s that Christian, huh?” Em rolls his eyes as he picks up the bowl and throws the milk into the sink.

Arthur laughs despite himself, going back to the bedroom to fetch a dry sock.

In the night Em comes back smelling of bonfires and herbs, tired and dirty but in a state of euphoria—his eyes are shining, gold seeping in and out of his irises. Arthur doesn’t dare ask about the Midsummer rituals, preferring to not know in case a living creature actually _was_ sacrificed there.

He’s got to admit he’s sickly jealous of that part of Em’s life that he’s not sharing with Arthur. Especially when Em’s doing his Merlin gig at the club and he doesn’t come back home, claiming he’s either too buzzed up or too tired when the excitement fades to even try travelling through the city. And on the rare occasions when he does come back to the flat somewhere around dawn, he only crawls into bed, curling into a ball and shoving his freezing, bony arse into Arthur like a cat seeking warmth.

There’s also something off with the check-ins at the House. Sometimes they last longer than they should, and when Em finally shows up he’s withdrawn and quiet, or maybe angry, and only barely hiding his aggravation under the cover of reserve. When Arthur asks about it Em avoids the topic, answering in half-words and muttered excuses.

“I just worry about you,” Arthur says, but Em smiles and waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s just that I don’t agree with my people sometimes. But I can handle myself all right.”

xxx

But then there’s this night when Em disappears for hours. Arthur’s already texted and phoned him more times than is sane and appropriate. Finally, he gives up and goes to bed alone. He’s woken up in the middle of the night by Em slipping under the covers with him.

“Where were you?” Arthur asks, not able to hide the anger in his voice. But then one glance at Em tells him something isn’t right. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

In the dim light of the bedroom Arthur can see there are some bruises on Em’s cheek and arm, but when he reaches to touch them, Em moves away and says, “I had a disagreement with Mordred. But I’m okay. I just had to stay a bit to clear things up with the House. Nimueh was pretty upset.”

“Mordred? What did he do?” Arthur sits up, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Never mind. It’s not important. It’s just that Mordred is such a fucking asshole sometimes.”

Arthur thinks Em wanted to say something else. This is something that’s been killing Arthur forever now—the way Merlin just runs out of the flat each time he gets a text from Mordred, looking panicked; the way he slips out of the room, talking in a hushed voice whenever Mordred calls; the way Merlin always evades the topic when Arthur brings it up. But he won’t let it go this time.

“So what exactly is this thing with Mordred?” he asks, serious.

Em shrugs and falls silent. But after a while he sighs. “It’s complicated. _He_ ’s complicated.”

Arthur fights the urge to say, “I bet,” and instead he threads his fingers through Em’s, hoping he’s giving as much understanding and patience as he—being himself—can give.

“He really can be an idiot. I can’t listen to all his plans. He thinks magical ones should conquer the world. I try to talk him out of things, but he’s stubborn as an ox. Maybe he’s too messed up. Sometimes he can’t contain himself, really. When he’s upset. But I get it. I get _him_ , I guess. I blame myself for abandoning him. He needs me. And it’s not like he’s like this all the time; he can be really great. He helped me so much when I had a hard time adjusting to life in the House, and with magic control. We’ve shared a room there since forever now. So, I’m usually good at reading him, it’s just that sometimes when he’s angry or depressed, or in a really strange mood, he can be… weird.”

“Weird? Is that your way of saying ‘he uses magic to hurt me’?”

Em doesn’t answer at first and it’s all the answer Arthur needs. He lets go of Em’s fingers.

“I don’t mind it,” Em says gently.

“Are you fucking serious?” Hot anger hits Arthur. He runs his hand through his hair.

“It was just a disagreement _._ Plus _,_ it’s not like he can control his emotions, can he? And if he’s got to have an outlet, I’d rather it be me than someone else.”

Arthur stands up and walks to the dresser, then goes back. “Give me a minute,” he tells Em and storms out of the bedroom before he can say or do something he’ll regret. He stands in the kitchen, over the sink, his knuckles going white from clutching the counter too hard. He takes a cup and pours himself a glass of water, drinks it, and tries to clear his head to think.

How come Em allows Mordred to hurt him and then talks about it as if it’s something totally normal? It makes Arthur sick. This is unbelievable. Jesus. Arthur ruffles his hair in frustration. He hears the soft padding of bare feet behind him and Em’s cool arm wraps around him. Soft lips are on Arthur’s back, kissing the spot where his shoulder blades meet.

“I just… I just can’t leave him sometimes when he needs me. He doesn’t have that many friends.”

Arthur leans back. “I could just—” he starts and stops. “I want to mess this little fucker up so badly.”

“Don’t even think about it!” Em takes a few steps back and his voice balances between outrage and panic. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll _never_ try to even go near him. He’s one of the most powerful sorcerers I know. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“Like what? Will he turn me into a toad?” Arthur jokes without laughing.

“Very funny,” Em scolds him. “Just trust me on this, okay? His powers are… vast. I’m not sure if there’s any magical one who could stop him. Not if he wants something.”

“Not even you?” Arthur tries, because as little as he knows about magic, he’s sure that Em’s powers exceed most. Em looks at him with surprise.

“Definitely not me. Besides, he’s my friend. But that’s not the point! Just please keep away from him. Mordred isn’t above hurting others to get what he wants. And by hurting I mean _really_ hurting, not just being rough, okay?”

Arthur shivers because what Em’s telling him sounds like a line from a bad movie.

“Come on,” Em says gently, placing his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and rubbing it. “Forget we’ve even talked about it. Let’s just go back to bed.”

They do go back to bed, crawling under the covers, and Em curls up in a ball. Soon Em’s drifting into sleep, all warm, sweet-smelling and vulnerable. Arthur stays awake, though, rethinking their whole conversation over and over, anxiety gripping and clenching his guts like a vise.

When finally he calms down enough to hug Em under the sheets, he feels Em’s fingers traveling up and down his arm, Em’s body pressing on him, and Em’s erection brushing his thigh.

“You want...?” he mumbles sleepily, but is silenced by Em climbing on top of him and kissing him. It’s a soft kiss at the beginning, but then Em deepens it while he holds Arthur’s hands up above his head and pins them to the mattress.

“I just want…” Em says in between the kisses. “I just want…Can I?”

Arthur’s not sure what Em’s asking for, but he nods anyway. He feels Em’s magic reaching for him, as if it’s boiling under the surface, trying to force its way out of the boy’s body. Em tightens his grip on one of Arthur’s wrists while he reaches with his other hand between Arthur’s legs, tingling with magic. Warmth is spreading fast through Arthur’s body, and he starts writhing under the invisible touch.

“Oh, fuck me,” he gasps, and Em chuckles a bit but soon falls silent, working Arthur open with his magic-slicked fingers, slowly and meticulously.

Arthur has no idea when the fingers are replaced by Em’s cock, he must have been lost in it for a while, but he feels Em pushing inside him with long, hard thrusts. Arthur is breathless and wants to come, but Em’s magic, or whatever it is, prevents him from doing so, prolonging this. It’s sweet and cruel at the same time.

Em has his eyes closed, but Arthur’s sure that they must be golden. The magic tonight is different than what he’s used to, different even from that time on the boat. It’s more raw, more primal, as if Em’s fucking his way deep into him and leaving all his essence there. Em whispers something behind Arthur’s ear, breathing warmth into his skin, and Arthur comes with Em’s hand squeezing in between their bodies, catching all the come, smearing it over their skin.

And then he feels it—Em bursting deep inside him—and he knows it must be hot and maybe magical as it sinks into his body and surges through him, making him feel dizzy and euphoric.

“Jesus, that was… You are…” he mumbles later, and Em just squeezes Arthur’s hand, chest heaving, his cock still hard and buried deep inside Arthur.

When Arthur wakes up in the morning, Em’s lying sprawled on top of him and they’re both sticky, but Arthur doesn’t mind it a single bit.


	7. The Betrayal

 

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,” Em whines for the thousandth time while they’re driving to the club.

“It’s gonna be fine, Em,” Arthur says, a little annoyed already. “Stop freaking out about it. I’ve been there before, remember? And I had a good time, if I recall correctly.” He winks.

“I just have a bad feeling about it, that’s all.” Em shrugs and turns away from Arthur to look out the window at the passing London streets, grey and shadowy in the late evening light.

The front of the club is already filling up with the inflow of people, but Em ignores it and leads Arthur to a back entrance for staff, then down a dingy corridor. Soon, they enter the main staff common room which doubles as the dressing rooms as well. It’s packed with people, brightly lit, and filled with mismatched furniture—long, worn couches, makeup mirrors, and lockers with name tags attached to them. Arthur spots Em’s locker with a huge “Merlin” sign over it. All that—messy and chaotic as it is—reminds Arthur of the familiar surroundings of a TV backstage area, especially when he notices a long table against the wall with thermoses of coffee and tea.

“Em!” exclaims a young girl with long hair and big doe eyes who runs to hug Em.

“Hi, Freya,” Em says, brightening up and hugging her tight, even picking her up from the floor a little.

“Gods, I never see you anymore!” She huffs, feigning annoyance, but there is a hint of genuine sadness in her voice.

“I’m sorry, I know, I know,” Em says, as he puts her down and kisses her cheek.

“No, no. It’s okay! I’m happy for you. I’d rather see you with someone like your Arthur, who, you know… than _him,_ ” she finishes almost inaudibly.

“Yeah,” Em whispers, too, and Arthur can barely hear them now, especially with all the murmurs in the room. “But you know how he is. Why it has to be like this.” Em’s voice is strained. He keeps his hand on Freya’s arm.

“Yeah.” Freya nods and Em turns them both to Arthur.

“Come meet my Arthur, yeah?” He smiles while Arthur’s heart stops because Em’s just named him _his_. He’s never imagined something so simple could mean so much to him. _Jesus, I’m turning into a sappy sod,_ Arthur thinks while Em makes introductions.

Freya’s palm is small and cool, tingling with magic underneath his fingers. He looks into Freya’s eyes and she blushes.

“Em keeps talking about you,” Arthur says. “You know, when he’s not blubbering about nonsense, that is.” He smiles. “It’s always ‘Freya this and Freya that’. I feel like I almost know you.”

“Really, Merlin? You talk about me?” Freya beams.

“All the time. Actually he _talks all the time_ , but certainly there’s plenty of you in his rumblings. I wish I had a sister like you.”

“Keep dreaming,” Em says, starting to undress. He folds his clothes and stuffs them in the “Merlin” locker. He’s just in his underwear now, but to Arthur’s surprise he takes them off, too, and stands totally naked in front of the locker.

More people come and go, letting the distant sound of pounding music fill the place each time the door is opened.

“Okay,” Freya says. “Let’s get you ready. I’ll fetch the cup. Arthur, you can sit there.” She motions to a couch next to them. “Help yourself to tea or coffee, and if you need anything else just call for me, okay?”

Arthur nods and says his thanks. He sits down and stares at Em, who seems to be totally unaffected by his nakedness in a room full of people who generally seem to be very busy.

Someone hands Em a box from which he takes out the necklace with the crescent moon pendant Arthur remembers Em wearing when he first saw him in Avalon. He pulls it over his head, the glittering moon complementing the colour of Em’s skin. Freya comes back with another wooden box and a small pouch made from black synthetic fiber. She also has a large piece of black cloth draped over her arm, which she hangs on the chair next to Em.

“Ready? Shall I call them?” she asks.

“Yes.” Em nods, glancing back at Arthur. “You may… um. You may watch if you want. But if you don’t like it you can leave at any time, okay? I won’t get offended or anything.”

“I told you. I want to see it.” He finds it irritating they’re going back to the same conversation over and over again. It’s as if Em doesn’t trust Arthur to stand by him no matter what.

“Okay,” Em agrees. “I’ll talk to you after, then.”

He opens the wooden box and takes out a golden cup, then places it carefully on the table. Freya comes back, accompanied by three girls, also naked, covered only in dark capes draped over their shoulders and tied around their necks. Their hair is done up and they wear golden diadems and bracelets. The jewellery from that close looks old enough that Arthur starts wondering if all that gold may actually be real, even though the first time he was here he was sure it was all fake.

Freya takes a pot with clear liquid inside and pours it into the cup.

“Shall we?” she asks Em, who just nods silently.

Arthur watches as everyone stands around the cup holding their hands up, palms towards the inside of the cup. Em closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them, already gleaming with gold, and starts incanting something in a strange language that reminds Arthur of old English or Gaelic. He’s never seen Em doing magic like this, in a prepared, ritualistic way, with words and practiced movements. He’s always thought magic was something natural for Em, like his constant talking.

He can smell the familiar scent of ozone from the magic, which reminds him of the smell of city streets in the summer right after a heavy storm. He can see golden light shimmering out of the cup and liquid swirling inside.

Em stops incanting for a moment and reaches to the table for the small pouch, taking out something that looks like a pen. He puts its end to his finger; there’s a soft clicking sound and Em squeezes his finger, letting a small drop of his blood fall into the cup.

Arthur expects the liquid to sizzle or bubble, or maybe even smoke, like in the movies whenever someone makes a magical potion, but there’s nothing of that sort.

Em puts the injector pen back inside the cover and turns around. His eyes are still golden and unfocused, his face calm and serene. He feels very distant to Arthur like this, not like his Em at all. Freya takes the cape from the chair, wraps it around Em’s shoulders, and gives him a light shove to indicate he can proceed. He flips the hood of the cape over his head, and Arthur can now see the _Merlin_ he met the first time he was here—strange, powerful and intriguing. He wants him as much now as he did that first time he saw him, or maybe even more.

One of the girls takes the cup and they all stand in a line, like in a procession, silent and focused on Em at the end. He doesn’t turn around to look at Arthur as they walk out of the room. Arthur stares at the closed door, not sure what he should do, until Freya touches his hand and asks, “You wanna go watch?”

“Sure,” he says, even though he’s not really certain he should be disturbing Em with his presence by the stage.

For the next hour he watches Em— _his Em_ , but not his Em at all—giving himself out to the crowd in this communion of sorts. People go into a frenzy when Em turns his golden eyes to them, their bodies dancing and swaying, sweat glistening on their skin. They’re not worthy of Em’s attention and Em’s magic, Arthur thinks.

The cup isn’t emptying even though more than a hundred people have already drunk out of it. It feels like it lasts for hours. Arthur’s whole body has gone stiff and he tries to stretch before leaning back on the wall to support his aching back. But then, suddenly, Em nods to the accompanying girls and they all stand up to move from the stage, leaving the last clubbers waiting in line looking disappointed.

“Come on,” Freya emerges out of nowhere and once again puts her tiny hand on Arthur’s arm, steering him back to the changing room. “Let’s help him to come down.”

Back in the room Arthur wants to go to Em immediately and talk to him. He starts with, “This was incredible—” but stops mid-sentence when he realises Em is still a bit in a trance, his hood down and eyes glowing with the last hints of gold.

Freya helps Em take off the cape and the necklace, and even assists him when he dresses up in his own clothes. Em goes through the motions petulantly, like a small kid being dressed up by his mother. Then Freya sits Em down on the couch and vanishes for a moment, coming back with a big mug of something hot and aromatic and placing it in Em’s hands.

“Drink,” she orders, but Em just leans back on the couch and closes his eyes. His skin is very pale, almost translucent now, and he looks lifeless, a bit like he looked when Arthur drove him out of the TV building after Edwin’s bomb attack.

“Make sure he drinks this,” Freya tells Arthur, motioning to the mug in Em’s hands.

Arthur sits down next to Em and wraps his arm around Em’s shoulders, stroking the cool, humid skin of the boy’s neck.

“Drink it like Freya says, Em. You look cold,” he scolds. When Em doesn’t respond, Arthur takes the mug from his hands and brings it up to his lips. Em complies and takes a few sips, but then he just shakes his head and murmurs, “Later.”

It takes what feels like half an hour, or maybe more, before Em finally opens his eyes and starts drinking his tea.

“You okay?” Arthur asks, because Em still doesn’t _look_ okay.

“Mmm.” Comes the answer that can mean anything.

“This is why you’re never with me anymore,” says a cool, velvety voice and Arthur looks up to see the boy he met at the mall with Em. _Mordred._ The dangerous and twisted but _oh-so-sensitive_ one, as Em claims.

Em tenses up and sits straighter on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” Em asks. It’s said gently, not at all challenging, but Arthur can hear a strain in Em’s voice.

“Well, you don’t call anymore, you don’t answer my texts, so I thought I might as well come here on your Merlin night to see you. I miss you.” Mordred’s intonation sounds strange—as if it’s filled with genuine feelings and mockery at the same time. “Or maybe you don’t want to see me anymore? Now that you have your new boyfriend, your prince in shining armour. Maybe you don’t need your old friends anymore?”

The words are innocent, full of hurt even, but there’s something about Mordred’s demeanour that puts Arthur on edge. He makes a move to stand up, but Em places his hand on Arthur’s thigh and squeezes, indicating he wants Arthur to keep still.

“You know it’s not like that,” Em tells Mordred, slowly standing up, holding tightly to the couch. His body is still exhausted, muscles shaking lightly. “I’m glad you came.”

Mordred nods. “Good. Good,” he says. “Because here I was thinking you chose him, after all.” He waves towards Arthur. “Even though you know what that would mean for all of us. We talked about it. Unless you want it?”

“No. I don’t want that.” Em walks towards Mordred and… _Fuck._ Arthur can’t believe his eyes when he sees Em kissing Mordred lightly on the lips.

“I missed you, too,” Em says while Mordred places his arm possessively over Em’s shoulders in much the same gesture as Arthur made a few moments ago. Em leans into this touch, allowing Mordred to caress his hair. Arthur’s too stunned to process the scene unravelling in front of his eyes. His heart stops beating and then picks up again, the rhythm somewhere in his throat. His vision’s going black around the edges. He tastes sick-sweet saliva in his mouth.

Em’s standing with his side pressed to Mordred, body bent in an awkward position as if he wants both to be both closer and farther away, and he’s unusually still, his expressive hands frozen in a gesture that says nothing to Arthur.

“Come on,” Mordred says, gently nudging Em. “I’ll take you home and take care of you like I always do after your silly gigs, right? One day they’re gonna sip it out of you, you know. And who’s gonna bring your pieces back together when I’m not around?” Mordred leads a compliant Em out of the room. When they pass through the door Em shoots a sad, apologetic glance at Arthur.

They’re out and Arthur’s left on the couch, not believing what’s just happened.

“Arthur—“ Freya starts, but Arthur’s seen enough.

“Don’t,” he says, dodging her outstretched arm, not letting her stop him as he rushes out of the place.

For the second time, he doesn’t remember how he gets home from the club. He doesn’t know how he gets outside, doesn’t remember finding his car, or driving it, or going up the stairs to his apartment. When he enters his place, his glance lands on Em’s clothes and notebooks scattered around. He starts picking them up automatically, then dumps them back on the floor, turns around, and goes out again, slamming the front door.

He feels as if he’s suffocating. Waves of nausea are hitting him, interrupted by sharp pangs of a horrible awareness of betrayal. He walks the empty streets of his neighbourhood, turning round the corners, going in circles. Somehow he loses his sense of direction, doesn’t recognize the surroundings anymore. He can’t get rid of the image of Mordred’s arm around Em, of Em kissing the boy on the lips, of Em leaning into Mordred’s touch as if he were a compliant pet—the familiarity of their gestures are unbearable for Arthur.

It’s dawning already—the first commuters are rushing through the streets on their way to wherever they need to be—when Arthur finally gets back to the apartment. He’s dead tired, as if someone has drained all his energy from him and left him flat and lifeless like a discarded puppet. But the fatigue keeps the images of the night dulled. They’re still haunting him, but not as sharp and repetitive as before.

He just wants his bed, that’s all. He strips out of his clothes, leaving them crumpled on the bedroom floor, and crawls under the covers to wait for sleep to come.

xxx

There are twenty-seven missed calls and four texts from Em when Arthur wakes up and eventually turns on his phone. He only sees the last text from this morning as it displays on his screen.

_Please pick up._

Arthur deletes it and gets ready for work. It’s Sunday, sure, but no one will be surprised if he turns up in the office—it’s not unusual for him to work on the weekends. Camelot Building never sleeps and never has holidays.

He’s exhausted. He can taste the lack of sleep lingering in his mouth. His muscles are shaky and his legs hurt from all the walking. He skips lunch and drinks his too-hot coffee in long sips which burn his tongue but warm up his insides. It would be so good if the warmth could spread to his aching muscles and ease the shivers in his back. But it doesn’t.

The office is full of people, and even the marketing department isn’t deserted. Arthur nods to co-workers and dives into piles of reports, making notes as he prepares for next week’s presentations. He holds himself quite all right until it’s evening again and he almost gets sick from being so damn tired.

_Food._ He needs food _,_ he decides, and drags his feet to the lift, leaning his cheek on the cold surface of the metal door. His phone beeps, and Arthur deletes yet another message from Em without looking at what it says.

xxx

After a few hours the phone calls and texts stop, and Arthur isn’t sure if he’s relieved or crushed that Em’s given up on him so quickly. He can’t bring himself to go home after dinner to face the empty flat, so he goes back to the office and sleeps on the couch in the conference room instead. He’s awakened by a cleaning guy at five a.m.

“Presentation,” Arthur mumbles, waving his hand toward the dimmed laptop and scattered papers.

“Sorry, sir? Didn’t hear that.” The guy takes out an ear bud and looks at Arthur apologetically.

“Just…” Arthur motions to the room again. Why does he feel obliged to explain himself? It’s not like he’s never slept in the office before or like he can’t do whatever he pleases, actually. “Yeah,” he murmurs, standing up to make his first coffee of the day. He changes into a clean shirt that he keeps in the office in case of stain emergencies. He can’t do much about the wrinkled suit though.

It’s dark when he enters his apartment. He’s shivery again and kind of expecting Em to be there hiding somewhere in the darkness. But the apartment is quiet and empty. He stumbles on something lying on the floor and flicks the lights only to discover it’s one of Em’s hoodies. He kicks it out of the way in a burst of anger and storms into the kitchen to dig for garbage bags.

For the next twenty minutes he shoves each and every item of Em’s he can find into the garbage bags. Anger is blinding him, helping him focus only on the narrow task—search and pack, find and hide. He places the bags next to the front door and takes his phone to text Em to pick up his shit. He starts typing but each time he does it he taps the wrong letters, then hits backspace, and again the wrong letters.

“Fuck,” he shouts and throws the phone into the wall. He sits on the floor, pushes the heels of his palms into his eyelids and stills. Waits. Breathes. And then he waits some more.

The phone is still working when he picks it up but there’s a dent and a little crack in the case. He thinks that from now on he’ll be reminded of this day every time he looks at the phone. Reminded of Em and Em’s betrayal. Of Arthur’s own childish behaviour when he threw his phone into the wall. 

He leaves the bags full of Em’s things as they are, gathers some of his own stuff in a football bag, and walks out of the place. He briefly considers crashing at Leon’s, but he’d hate to impose. He just needs to go someplace that doesn’t remind him of Em. Someplace that hasn’t been touched by Em. Because Em’s invaded the whole space of Arthur’s life—his body, his apartment, even his fucking sailboat.

xxx

_Monday_ , his phone indicates, which means he’s been in the hotel and out of his place for the whole week now. He’s not sure how that happened. He opens the door to his flat and walks in. It’s tidy. His cleaning lady, Martha, must have been in here, and there’s no sign of the garbage bags. For a moment Arthur shudders in guilt and panics over Martha throwing away Em’s stuff by accident, but then he spots the key and Em’s silver crescent pendant on the kitchen table. There’s no note, just two metal objects lying next to each other on the white surface of the marble.

Arthur takes the pendant, swings it for a moment to watch the half-moon swirl in the air, and then he shoves it in a kitchen drawer, slamming it closed with a loud crack. 


	8. Ealdor

Arthur wakes up and lies in bed with eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Tiring thoughts are clouding his mind, anxiety knotting his stomach in painful contractions. He feels as if he can’t breathe lying down, tangled up in his sheets, so he gets up, opens a window, and tries to inhale and exhale slowly. There’s a chill in the air indicating that warm summer nights are coming to an end.

He would love to focus on one thought at a time, but his mind isn’t going easy on him. Standing in front of the window and trying to calm down isn’t working, so he goes to take a shower, then drinks his morning cup of tea while browsing through the latest news on his iPad.

He’s _not_ thinking about Em and how it’s been four weeks and three days since he last deleted a text from him. He’s not thinking about how he hasn’t been sleeping since Em left his bed. He’s not thinking about how he can’t focus on anything but Em’s absence.

When the phone rings, Arthur’s been awake for hours, so at first he doesn’t notice the time. The caller ID says Unknown, and Arthur stares at it until it stops buzzing on the table. The clock on the phone shows five thirty and probably someone has just called the wrong number. But then the phone goes off again and—fuck—calls at this hour don’t usually mean anything good.

“Arthur Pendragon,” he answers the phone.

“Hello?” says a man’s rough voice. “Is this Arthur Pendragon?” As if Arthur hasn’t just introduced himself.

“Yes,” he says patiently.

“My name’s Gaius. Do you know Emrys Saunders?” This feels like a blow. As if the floor has been swiped from Arthur’s feet. His whole soul screams _no_ and _fuck_ and _please, let nothing bad have happened to Em._

“Is Emrys all right?”

“Can you come over to the St. Thomas Hospital?” Gaius asks.

“Yes, right away. What happened? Is Emrys okay?” But the man has already hung up.

xxx

_This is how it must have felt when people were getting telegrams about their loved ones lost in war,_ Arthur thinks as he rushes for the garage, mind full of the worst presumptions. The voice on the phone was so perfunctory, devoid of any emotions. The city streets are empty; only a handful of cars and buses are bringing early workers to their offices.

_Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay,_ he keeps repeating throughout the whole drive, whispering it over and over again, hoping that the magic of his wishful thinking and his belief in God will be enough to make it true. It doesn’t matter if they are together or not—it doesn’t matter if Em has chosen Mordred—the only thing that is important right now is Em being _okay_.

“I’m here for Emrys Saunders,” Arthur tells the receptionist, probably a bit too loudly since the girl scowls at him. He shoots her a Pendragon look, the one with one raised eyebrow, and she just waves with her hand, indicating the direction.

Em’s half-sitting, half-lying hunched on a plastic chair, his legs curled under and his head leaning against the wall. He looks as if he’s dead, all pale and motionless, so thin in his too loose clothes that for one dreadful moment Arthur actually believes this is it—he’s come to bid farewell to him. But then Em looks up at two police officers who walk down the corridor to stand in front of him, demanding something, and Arthur’s blood starts circulating again. He can actually feel it swooshing in his veins and warming up his body, tingling in his toes. He wants to run towards Em and poke and prod him to make sure Em’s alive, but that’s something he’s no longer entitled to do.

“Arthur Pendragon?” an old man with long grey hair asks. He’s wearing hospital scrubs but the tag on his chest is one of those temporary ones that say “visitor.”

“Yes?” Arthur turns to him, trying not to lose Em from his eyeline, as if sustaining the sight connection can keep Em from vanishing.

“I’m Gaius. I’m a Magical Injuries counsellor. Emrys says you can take care of him for tonight. Are you able to do that?”

“Is he hurt?” _What a stupid question_ , Arthur berates himself. Of course Em’s hurt, why would he be in the hospital otherwise?

“His injuries aren’t severe. He’s got two fractured ribs, a light concussion, and some general cuts, bruises and burns. However, our main concern tonight will be the aftereffects of excessive use of magic. So I need to make sure there will be someone with him at all times.” Gaius says all this like he’s talking to a child, speaking slowly and clearly. He also eyes Arthur hard, making it feel like an interrogation, even though it’s Gaius who’s supposed to be answering questions.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified,” Arthur says. “What kind of aftereffects are we talking about?”

“Well, extreme exhaustion mainly—if he seems unfocused, confused, or if his heart rate speeds or drops violently, bring him back to a hospital.”

Arthur flails. “We _are_ in a hospital! Shouldn’t he just stay here then? For observation at least?”

“There’s a strict NHS policy towards the magic users and the state won’t pay for his stay here.”

“What?”

“It’s not a life threatening situation, at least not right now,” Gaius explains, as if it’s an obvious reason. “So he needs to either go with you or back to his House.”

Arthur’s never heard of magic users being denied public healthcare. But then again, he’s never heard of magic users being denied _anything._ It’s only after he met Em that he started to become aware of such problems.

Arthur’s just about to tell Gaius he’s perfectly capable of paying for Em’s stay when the policemen who have been talking to Em approach them and address Gaius. “Can we have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Gaius says, nodding apologetically to Arthur.

Arthur walks towards Em, who is now sitting with his eyes closed and head leaned back.

“Em,” Arthur says, but gets no answer, so he crouches next to the seat and takes Em’s hands in his. They’re freezing cold and Arthur gently rubs his thumbs over the skin to warm them up.

“I’m sorry,” Em says. “I didn’t know who to call.” He opens his eyes but doesn’t look at Arthur.

“What happened?”

Em finally meets Arthur’s gaze. “Freya’s dead.”

Arthur should probably say, “Oh, my God” or, “I’m sorry,” or something else that would be appropriate, but he doesn’t know how to react. He just stares at Em and keeps rubbing his palms. Before he has a chance to gather his thoughts, a middle-aged man in a suit approaches them.

“Emrys Saunders?” the man says. “Would you follow me, please?”

Arthur stands up. “What do you want with him?”

“Excuse me,” the man turns to Arthur. “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Aredian Davies from the Magical Department. I need to perform a full scan on Mr Saunders to record his role in the death of Miss…” He looks at a file he carries. “Freya Griffiths.”

“Can’t it wait till later?” Arthur asks. “He’s hardly in a state.” He motions to Em, who again looks as if he’s half-dead.

“I'm afraid not.” Aredian shakes his head. “Mr Saunders?” He leans down and places his hand on Em’s shoulder, shaking him a little. Em visibly winces and starts to stand up.

“Let’s go.” Aredian says, and Em follows him, hunched forward with one hand wrapped around his stomach and other placed on the wall, supporting himself. They enter an examination room and the door closes behind them.

Arthur sits on the chair vacated by Em, waiting. After about fifteen minutes he gets up and starts pacing. He goes back to the reception desk to find Gaius there filling out some forms.

“Is the scan really necessary right now?” Arthur asks him without any preliminaries. 

“Sorry?” Gaius looks up from his forms.

“The magical scan. Does it have to be now? He’s exhausted and needs rest. You’re his doctor—you should say something!”

Gaius makes a few more notes and then sets the forms and pen aside. “They have to check him. And they can’t postpone it because it’s much more difficult to trace spells after some time has passed. It’s standard procedure; I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“I only know what Emrys’ told me,” Gaius says. “That there was a disagreement that ended with angry spell-casting during which a young girl named Freya was killed. Also, another young sorcerer named Mordred is missing.”

“Mordred,” Arthur repeats.

“That’s what Emrys’ said. But you can ask him yourself—it seems his scan is over.” He looks behind Arthur.

If it’s possible, Em looks even worse now. He’s walking slowly towards Arthur, arm still placed across his stomach. Aredian follows him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’ll notify you about the hearing,” he says to Em, his voice sour. “Goodbye, Mr Saunders. Mr Pendragon.” He nods to Arthur and walks down the corridor. Arthur’s sure he hasn’t given his name to the man.

Gaius hands Em a sheet of paper. “Sign here, please,” he says. “Here’s a prescription for painkillers and one for antibiotics. You may feel nausea; that’s perfectly normal. If anything bothers you, though, please call me. You have my number.”

“Yes, thank you,” Em says and takes the prescriptions from Gaius.

“Come on. Let me take you home,” Arthur says, even though his home isn’t Em’s anymore. He places his arm around Em, trying to be as gentle as possible, and helps him walk to the car.

By the time he puts Em to bed, takes off his shoes and covers him with blankets, and then gets the medication from the pharmacy, it’s already past nine and Arthur becomes jittery. It feels as though his phone is burning a hole in his pocket. He calls the office to tell them he’s working from home today and cancels the meetings he’s had scheduled for midday. There’s no way he’s leaving Em alone. He sits with his laptop set on the dining table but can’t concentrate. Urgent e-mails suddenly don’t stress him out anymore. It’s astounding how all the work problems lose their importance in the light of real-life tragedy. Nonetheless, he drowns in the inflow of messages and tries his best not to go check on Em every ten minutes.

He’s about to get up and order something for lunch when Em enters the kitchen. He still looks pale and exhausted as he stands clutching the doorframe.

“How do you feel?” Arthur asks.

"Could you take me to my mom to Ealdor?” Em says instead of answering Arthur. “I know it's far. I'll understand if you can’t.” Em sounds so apologetic that Arthur can’t bear it.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, standing up. “I will. Just let me make a few phone calls.”  
  
xxx

It’s a long and silent drive. Em lies on the back seat of the car curled up in a ball, his headphones on. Arthur fights the urge to pull over and crawl to Em to just… He doesn’t know what he would do, or what could he possibly say to Em to make him feel better.

It’s dark when they finally enter the road leading to Em’s mother’s house. It’s lit only by a single bulb on the porch and the headlights of his car, so Arthur can’t see much more than the dark shape of a house, shadows of trees surrounding it, and the narrow strip of grassy road in front of them.

Em’s mother, Hunith, whom they called on the way, is standing outside waiting to let them in. Arthur shuts off the engine and helps Em scramble out of the back seat, then stands next to the car. The scene of mother and son reuniting is almost religiously sublime for Arthur, and he doesn’t dare disturb it. After the constant hum of the car, the abrupt silence rings in Arthur’s ears until he’s dizzy—there’s only the distant barking of dogs and the dull buzzing of a few crickets. The night is redolent of wet soil and fallen leaves.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Hunith says, hugging Em. Arthur can hear tears in her voice.

He shivers from the cold air that hits him and Hunith rushes them inside. The hallway is cluttered with shelves full of shoes, overcoats, insect repellent, and garden tools.

“Oh, please, leave them on,” Hunith says, seeing Arthur start to peel off his shoes. “The floor in the house is cold.” She’s just the way Arthur imagined her – slim and strong with gentle eyes.

“Go lie down, honey.” She turns to Em, brushing the fringe out of his eyes. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Unless you’d like to eat something?”

Em shakes his head and Arthur wants to protest because Em hasn’t eaten anything since they met in the hospital, but he leaves it for now. He’s sure Hunith will see to it. He helps Em walk up the narrow wooden stairs and get in bed in his old room.

It’s messy in the way boys’ rooms are usually messy—models of little skateboards and planes fighting for a place on the shelves with books. There are posters of bands Arthur has never heard of covering most of the walls and piles of textbooks lying around on the floor. Arthur smiles because it looks so familiar, so natural; somehow it places his magical boy back in the real world. He turns to walk out and leave Em to rest, but before he reaches the door Em stops him.

“Can you stay with me for a while? Until I fall asleep?”

“Yeah, sure.” Arthur glances around but there’s nowhere to sit—the only chair is covered in piles of textbooks—so he lies on the bed next to Em and leans back against the headboard.

“You okay?” he asks, feeling stupid, because how can Em be okay?

“Yes,” Em answers automatically and then corrects himself. “No. No, I’m not. I don’t know. It’s just—I keep replaying it in my mind, you know? Thinking I could’ve stood a little more to the left, or been quicker with the spell, or just... I don’t know. I could’ve done _something_ , anything so she wouldn’t, you know... I can’t understand why it worked that time in the Camelot Building and this time I couldn’t do anything. I tried.”

Arthur feels like no matter what he says, Em won’t believe him. He slumps on the bed, moving closer to Em.

“I wasn’t there,” he starts, “but I know that you must’ve done all you could. Sometimes it’s just like that. It’s just how it is.” This is the lamest reassurance anyone could ever give to anybody, but Arthur has no other explanation for the ways of life. It is what it is.

“But what’s the point in me having all this _power_ if I can’t save life?”

“You saved me. Us.” Arthur reminds him.

Em doesn’t answer. They lie on the bed next to each other and Arthur can feel the warmth of Em’s body next to his. He thinks how much he’s missed that. How much he misses it even now. How much he’ll miss it when he has to go home the next day.

The light filtering from behind the door is dim and it’s dark in the room, but neither of them reaches to turn on a lamp.

“Sometimes I think I’m _him,_ ” Em says softly.

“Who?”

“Him. _Merlin._ The real one. I see it, you know? Knights and horses and big feasts. Wars. I can see myself casting spells, shooting thunderbolts from my fingers, killing all my enemies. And I can see you, too. I don’t know how that possible, but I see you… on a horse, leading the knights.”

Em threads his fingers in his hair and tugs. The movement is barely visible in the dark but Arthur can feel it next to him. He can almost feel how hard Em pulls, how it’s hurting him. He wants to take Em’s hands in his and smooth his hair, but he doesn’t dare to move. Em continues in an almost inaudible whisper, “God, you must think I’m going crazy. _I_ think I must be going crazy. But I can see you. And I can see you dying.”

Arthur finally finds the strength and reaches for Em, taking his hands down and holding them in his own.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he says.

“But it’s not possible.”

“I don’t know.” Arthur sighs. “We don’t know everything, I guess. Anything’s possible. But what matters most is that it’s not happening now, right? I mean—we’re here. No war around us. No death. I’m not dead.”

“I feel like I’m someone evil inside. Like maybe my magic is evil. Like Freya’s? She was never good at keeping her destructive force under control. And it was her magic that just… bounced back. Mordred shielded himself and directed it back at her somehow. I think he twisted it, too, or enforced it. But you see? She was caught in the middle. She wanted us—me and Mordred—to stop fighting. She should never have been there in the first place. She was there because of _me_. It’s like _I_ killed her.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur says and squeezes Em’s fingers.

After a while Em’s breath evens out and Arthur thinks that Em’s fallen asleep, but when he glances down he sees Em’s lying with his eyes wide open.

“Sleep,” he tells him.

“All this magic in me?” Em says instead of closing his eyes. “Sometimes I feel as if it’s ruling me. It wants out. Like here. Now. This.”

He holds out his hand and Arthur can see a ball of light in it—gold and blue, moving and shimmering. The light keeps spreading from Em’s hand and goes up, slowly, like smoke from a cigarette on a winter morning, until it spreads on the ceiling in a way that reminds Arthur of waves on the sea. It shines softly, curving on the edges of the room, and then it starts descending, sprinkling everything in the room with blue and gold stardust. Arthur opens his palm to catch the shining dust, but it only coats his skin and wraps it up in warmth, like rays of light on a sunny day. It tingles a bit, too, and Arthur looks up to see that the whole room is flooded with light. He wants to tell Em that something so beautiful _cannot be evil_ , but before he can open his mouth everything starts fading, and Arthur realises that Em is finally asleep with his mouth open and his cheeks glistening with moisture because he’s been crying.

Arthur stays until the last remnants of gold and blue waves disappear, then he leans down and kisses Em lightly on the cheek. He doesn’t want to go, he’d rather stay here with Em and make sure Em sleeps and rests, but he has to get back to London. So he closes his eyes for a while, pressing the heels of his palms hard into his eyelids, then he exhales and walks out of the room. He leaves the door ajar so Hunith can hear in case Em calls for her.

“Thank you for bringing him here,” Hunith says, placing two mugs of tea on the kitchen table. “Please, help yourself.” She pushes a plate full of pound cake towards him. Arthur’s starving so he starts devouring it without a word.

“God, this is delicious,” he hums. “Thank you.”

“Will you stay for the night? You should. It’s way too late to be driving back to London.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. And I have to work in the morning.”

“You’ll be too tired to work anyway if you travel through the night,” Hunith says soberly, and Arthur has to admit she’s right. Sleep would be nice, even though it feels weird to stay in Hunith’s house. He’s not sure how much Hunith knows about his relationship with Em—apart from the fact that they used to live together.

“We don’t have a guest room, so I’m afraid the couch in the living room will have to do,” Hunith interrupts Arthur’s ruminations.

“That’s more than fine,” he says.

When it’s time to set off early next morning, Em’s still sleeping and Arthur doesn’t wake him up. Hunith shoves a bag with breakfast rolls into his hand and walks him to his car. He’s surprised when she kisses him on the cheek and gives him a warm hug before he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” she says. “And don’t be too angry with Em, okay? I know you’ve had a falling out, but… my son loves you very much.”

Arthur nods, not wanting to meet her gaze.

Fourteen hours later, after an excruciatingly long day at the office, he enters his apartment, tosses the keys in the bowl, takes his shoes off, and goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He’s so tired the floor seems to be moving under his feet and it feels as if he’s got hot sand poured under his eyelids. Maybe going straight to work after coming back from Ealdor wasn’t such a good idea, but he’d lost half a day as it was and couldn’t waste time going home first.

He goes to the living room and sits on the couch, remote control in his hand. He doesn’t turn the TV on though. Instead he covers his face with his hands and cries.

He’s too tired to fall asleep—everything spins when he tries to close his eyes—so he turns on his bedroom TV to watch a late night documentary, setting the sleep mode on the remote control for forty-five minutes. It’s easier to shut off his brain like this, without thinking how Em’s scent still lingers on his fingers.

 

xxx

 

Em calls almost a week after Arthur drove him to Ealdor. All this time Arthur has been trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t interrupt Em’s convalescence, and that he’s been too busy at work anyway to even think about it.

“Hi,” Em says and falls silent, because how can they get back to normal conversations after what’s happened?

“Do you feel better?” Arthur asks. “Does it still hurt?

“Um. A bit. A bit of both.”

“Couldn’t you, you know, magic it away?”

“I guess.” Arthur can visualize Em shrugging. “I just… I don’t want to. It’s like I deserve it, you know?”

And yes, Arthur does know. He really gets it. Still, it doesn’t make him any less worried about Em. He’d like to take all the pain away and he can’t, and the helplessness makes him angry with the whole world. He’d feel better if he had Em in his sight.

“When do you think you’ll be back?” he asks, but his question is welcomed with even more silence.

“I’m not,” Em says after what seems like an eternity.

“You’re not? Did the scan show—”

“I was cleared of any wrongdoing. Everything was confirmed—it was Freya’s own spell, rebounded by Mordred… But I’m not coming back,” Em says softly. “I’ll just stay here until winter break and then I’ll be heading to Bristol to check into a House there. And then, if I pass my Uni entrance exams, I’ll stay there. I can’t go back to London. I just can’t.”

“And Mordred?” Arthur asks, and it’s almost a whisper.

“He’s gone. I have no idea where he is now. And I don’t want to see him. Ever,” Em says, and it’s the first reassuring thing Arthur has heard. It’s for the best, Arthur thinks. There’s nothing for Em in London now. He’ll be so much better off with his mom. And without Mordred. So much more _normal_ —if normal is even possible in his condition. Plus it’s not like Em could move back in with Arthur, or be together like they were before.

“I’ll see you when I see you, then?” Arthur asks. It feels like goodbye.

“Yeah.” There’s something in Em’s voice that Arthur can’t decipher. “See you.”

Arthur puts the phone down and leans back on the couch. He stays like this for a few minutes and then goes to the table to open his laptop, immersing himself in work e-mails all over again. 


	9. Beltane

There’s a knock on the door and Arthur goes to open it, preparing himself for yet another long talk with one of his neighbours about the garden, or the rubbish, or the price of cleaning. Instead, he’s greeted by a pretty young girl with amber eyes and long hair hanging down her shoulders in waves. She’s carrying wildflowers in both of her hands.

“Hello, Arthur,” she says, her voice sweet and melodic. She smiles and Arthur is mesmerized by the way her plump lips are parted just so.

“Hello.” Arthur cocks his head because he doesn’t recognize the girl, and surely he’d remember someone that charming. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” The girl smiles again. “I’m Sophia. I lived in a House with Emrys.”

“Oh.” He swallows and tries to behave like a normal person who doesn’t want to run as fast as he can at the sound of Em’s name.

“These are for you.” Sophia hands him the flowers.

“Why?”

“ _Beltane_?” She says it like a song, then smiles again and bites her lip.

And yes, Arthur’s forgotten that it’s almost May already. There was a long autumn and then an even longer winter filled with so much work that Arthur sometimes couldn’t tell the real world from the one he was trying to sell. His life has frozen, caught in a loop of time in which he wakes up every day at ungodly hour, his stomach twisting in pain and chest constricted with anxiety. It’s no use trying to go back to sleep, so instead he gets up, makes a list of all the things he should do during the day so he doesn’t forget, and goes out for a run. On rainy days he just sits in the kitchen, sipping his morning tea and trying to focus on the raindrops hitting the windows rather than on his racing thoughts. But then the day begins and he’s swallowed by the swirl of activities: endless meetings, lunches with his father, and sometimes beer with Leon. He feels so tired. He wishes for one good night of sleep instead of three-hour naps. But that’s the price of responsibility, he thinks, and tries not to complain.

He takes the flowers the girl shoves in his hands.

“Oh, right. Right. Beltane.” He tries to remember the things Em told him about the holiday but only vaguely recalls something about fires and fertility and virgin blood. Sophia stands with her head cocked to the side, assessing him. She seems to be waiting for him to make a move. Arthur looks down at the flowers, wondering if he should give her something in return. And—oh yes—he should.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t have a Beltane cake to serve you. Unless you want to come in for a cuppa? I have some biscuits, too.”

“Thank you,” she says, her smile overwhelming. “I just wanted to invite you to our celebration tonight,” the girl continues.

“Ah.” Arthur falters. “I, ah, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” She cocks her head like a cute dog, still smiling.

“Well, first of all, I’m not magical.” He’s surprised to hear a tone of regret in his voice.

“You have enough magic placed inside you to worship the Goddess.” And when Arthur doesn’t answer she takes a small notebook out of her bag, scribbles something in it, tears off a page, and hands it to Arthur. “Well, this is the place, if you ever change your mind. And there should be biscuits, or a cake, actually,” she adds, puckering her lips as if not to laugh. “The Beltane cake-on-a-sword,” she sing-songs again, making Arthur smile.

Arthur accepts the note from Sophia. It smells of lovage and lilac—not the kind they use in all the artificial perfumes and air fresheners, but the real deal. It’s like standing under the lilac bush, taking a breath of spring and May and sunshine.

xxx

The sun is setting, warm day giving way to a warm evening, when Arthur goes to his bedroom and sits on the bed. He gazes at his hands, palms up and then down, searching for traces of the long-gone gold aura. If there’s any magic still in him, he can’t see it. He misses the magic in his veins, the state of awareness it used to give him, as if the whole world was on alert, alive and tingling with magical current.

He takes the crumpled note with the directions out of his pocket and turns it in his fingers, once, twice, and again. Finally, he stands up and pulls on a fresh shirt. He straightens the collar and fusses with his hair for a moment, but as he checks himself in the mirror he feels that something is still missing. He goes to the kitchen, opens the top drawer, and retrieves the waxing-crescent pendant. He fingers the edges of it, then the surface, then finally pulls it over his head to hang on his chest. The metal feels strangely warm against his skin, as if it’s been sitting in the sun.

He puts a bowl of milk with honey down on the floor next to the door and goes out, turning off the lights on the way.

The drive isn’t long. The directions are precise, so he has no trouble finding his destination. He can see fires from afar and people walking in pairs and groups, heading up a hill towards a gigantic bonfire in the middle of a field from where a steady drumming can be heard. The air smells of herbs and flowers Arthur can’t name. The wind is warm and pleasant, and the whole scene reminds him of the summer music festival Em took him to. The excitement, the magic, the gathering of people—it’s all so similar. He’s half expecting someone to stop him, tell him he doesn’t belong here, and he hesitates when he reaches a stone portal at the top of the hill.

“Blessed Beltane.” He’s greeted by a young man, bare-chested and barefoot, and a woman wearing a white nightgown with a flower wreath on her head. These Druidy clothes make him smile, but there’s no harm in playing a little pretend, so he allows them both to unbutton his shirt and smear scented mud over his bare chest, forearms and face. There’s no pattern to it—just long lines of green and brown covering his pale skin.

When they gesture to his feet, he takes his shoes off and they pour water from a silver pitcher over his toes. The woman blows air on his face and kisses him on the lips. “May the Spirits of Earth, Sea, and Sky be in your favour tonight and all the year round. You may now go bow to the Goddess.”

The grass feels soft and fresh under his feet when Arthur enters the meadow with the huge bonfire. People are circling it, dancing and singing to the rhythm of the drums. It should look childish and cheesy but it doesn’t. The fire is crackling, the air is filled with the scent of burned branches, herbs, and flowers that people keep throwing into the flames. Next to the fire there’s a small stone altar with offerings of food and flowers on it, guarded by a man in a long, brown robe and deer horns on his head. Next to him stands a petite, black-haired, middle-aged woman. She doesn’t look like the other girls here—she’s got no flowers in hair, and her clothes are dark red instead of white.

Arthur doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing so he just stands to the side, watching as more and more people gather around the horned man. He starts to incant words, mixing English with some melodic language that sounds Gaelic but might be anything at all. Arthur likes it anyway. He’s just relaxing and absorbing the night: the smells and sounds of holiday.

A young woman and a man step in the middle of the circle of people surrounding the altar. The girl is wearing white, her hair loose, a garland atop her flowing blonde tresses. The man is naked. He’s lean and strong, his face and whole body painted green, smudges of paint and mud creating a pattern suitable for a dryad.

“Bless our May Queen. Bless the Green Man.” The crowd says this in unison and the man and woman respond, “Join in the Goddess.”

The Green Man and the girl kneel in front of the altar, join their hands, and the horned man ties them with a blood-red ribbon. Then he takes a golden cup and holds it to their lips to drink. When people start to sing and the Green Man pulls the girl to lie on the ground with him, Arthur averts his eyes. He’s not prepared for this. It feels wrong to watch people mate like this, especially when he remembers from Em’s explanations about the Beltane that this should be the girl’s first time. It is her virgin blood that is the offering.

Yet when he looks again, a prayer later, he’s mesmerized by the gentleness of the act, the focus and joy visible on their faces, the slow, lazy movement of their bodies.

The girl sighs, her hair falling back, splayed on the ground. There’s something in the way her neck is exposed, pale and elegant, the way her lashes flutter when the man drives into her over and over, that makes Arthur want to immerse himself in this scene. The magic is so alive here that even he can feel it now, see it in the movement of leaves of grass around the mating couple, in the swirl of fire, in the sounds of the forest.

The man draws out and paints the girl’s skin in seed—her belly and thighs, little drops of semen falling onto the ground. The red-clad woman, who’s probably the High Priestess, kneels next to the couple, places her hands on the girl’s stomach, and whispers spells with her head bowed. Arthur wonders if he was conceived in the same way, next to the holy fires, brought to life under the gentle touch of the Priestess summoning the elements of the Earth.

More prayers are canted and the horned man bows to the couple, holds the cup again, and hands it to the man closest to him, saying, “Take the May Cup from your Merlin. Join with the May Queen and her beloved. Join with the Goddess.” The cup is then passed from person to person, each of them drinking and passing on the blessing. Arthur takes the cup from a girl to his right and hesitates.

“You’re not my Merlin,” he wants to say but doesn’t want to offend anyone, so he dips his lips into the cup, not taking the sip for real. Maybe he should—he’d get a glimpse of what he yearns for, the touch of magic that he could perhaps share with a girl or a boy later on, wandering to the woods to please and worship the Mother Earth. But that feels like a betrayal.

People chant and share blessings, join hands and jump over the fires. Some of them approach Arthur, squeeze his hands and look him in the eyes in search of the perfect match for tonight. More herbs are tossed in the fires, making them crack and hiss. Luminous sparks rise into the sky through tunnels of smoke. Couples wander off to the woods, their eyes shining, flowers falling from the girls’ hair to the ground like a scented trail behind them.

Arthur sees a familiar face in the crowd and smiles. Sophia walks toward him, steering clear of the dancing people in the circle. Her hair is down, looking soft and fresh. She’s wearing a white muslin skirt and a white silk blouse opened at the top. Her legs are dirty—smudges of mud and green stains of grass cover her feet and shins.

“So, you came after all.”

“I did.”

She leans to kiss him. Her lips are soft, sweet and inviting. He finds in himself that he wants the honey taste of this joining, the sensation of connection, of giving the Earth what’s Hers. His fingertips move to touch the girl’s waist just under the loose fabric of her blouse. He finds delicate skin there, so soft when he wraps his hand around the slim body and pulls Sophia closer to him. She smells of jasmine and the herbal mud that’s been smeared on their skin—heady and inviting. Her legs are strong and graceful when she straddles his hips. He can feel her full breasts against his chest, firm and yet pliable when he moves both of his hands to touch, to brush his thumbs over the straining nipples. He kisses her neck and licks a trail down, dragging his upper lip on the silky skin there.

She doesn’t protest when he lays her on the ground. Her breathing comes in sweet puffs while her legs part under Arthur’s touch. He loves the warm, smooth texture of her inner thighs and leans down to leave kisses there, going up, pressing his cheek to her belly with his eyes closed. It’s good to feel her fingers in his hair, pulling and brushing. It’s comforting. He could stay like this and be content, just rest underneath her touch, which becomes slower. He feels her sigh, stomach rising and falling under him.

Arthur rolls on his back, onto the damp grass, looking up at the sparks traveling to the sky. Under his palms laid flat on the ground he feels the earth resonating to the rhythm of drums and stamping feet. He whispers along with the words of the blessing that’s coming from the circle.

_Protect me in truth and honour;  
Satisfy my soul and shield my loved ones._

He thinks of Em and wonders what he can be doing now. Is he celebrating? Is he feeding the Earth with his seed? Is he satisfied? Does he feel protected?

He senses the brush of air next to him, hears bare feet padding away, and isn’t surprised to see that Sophia has wandered off to the woods, pulled by the hand of someone smiling, flowers scattering after them like Ariadne’s thread.

xxx

Arthur watches the fires, playing with a blade of grass in his hand, still rolling the words of the prayer on his tongue, wishing them to come true. He hears another soft thudding of barefoot steps on the grass, and a man stops next to him. Arthur looks up and immediately leaps up, but Mordred extends his hand in a calming gesture and Arthur sinks back down onto the grass.

“What do you want?” Arthur barks.

“I just want to talk to you,” he says. Even though he can’t be taller than Arthur, he’s quite stunning towering over Arthur like this, all dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes, glowing as if he used the Melange spice from “The Dune.”

“May I?” he asks, and sits down next to Arthur without waiting for permission.

They sit in silence, watching the bonfires. Arthur feels wary and awkward.

“You should join us,” Mordred says without looking at Arthur.

“Join who?”

“Us.” Mordred motions around them. “The magical community. You’d fit. After all, you are born from ancient magic.” There’s a little smile on Mordred’s face that Arthur would like to slap off. “I have plans,” Mordred continues, “and others support them, too. You know I’m a powerful sorcerer. We could do great things together.”

Arthur spits out, “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

Mordred leans closer, his eyes gentle, words calm and apologetic even. “You shouldn’t see me as your enemy. And quite contrary to what you might think, I don’t support violence. I never meant Freya any harm. But sometimes a sacrifice is needed. You know what they say about me? That I’m the ultimate warrior, blessed by the Goddess. That I’ll give magic its rightful place again.”

Arthur thinks of Muirden’s burnt face and eyes full of pain when he pulled at the wire to destroy the Camelot Building, of Em’s bruises and Em’s tears at night, of Freya’s smile he won’t see again.

“I will _never_ join you, blessed by the Goddess or not,” he says bitterly and shakes his head. “And you are wrong. I have no magic, no power. How can I be an asset to you, exactly?”

“You own the media.”

“My father owns the media.”

“Not forever.” The suddenly cool tone of Mordred’s voice makes Arthur flinch.

“Is this a threat?”

“No. That’s the way of the world. The King’s dead—long live the King. And once you are one? I want you to stop hiding your head in the sand. I want you to open the Vault.”

“The _what_?”

Mordred leans closer again, his voice hushed, as if he’s telling Arthur a secret.

“Your father has all the archives of the Riots stored away. I want you to open the Vault and show the real footage of the Riots for all the world to see. I want people to know that innocent magical ones were burned to crisps and trampled to death by the police.” He places a hand on Arthur’s arm and Arthur shoves it away.

“You are delusional. There’s nothing like this. I’d know.”

Mordred laughs, throwing his head back. It’s such a normal sound and gesture, Arthur’s surprised. He’d imagined Mordred would sound angry and bitter, like a villain from a superhero movie.

But then Mordred goes serious again. “I despise Uther and I want him to pay for his crimes, but you, Arthur? I believe in you.

“The time of magic is coming,” he continues. “Things that have been foretold centuries ago. Cycles that repeat themselves. And our destinies, as well as Em’s, have always been entwined together.”

“Don’t you fucking dare mention his name,” Arthur says through clenched teeth. He aims to throw a punch, to hurt Mordred—hit him so hard he’ll never walk again. Before he has time to stop himself there’s a push of a spell, a dull punch to his chest which makes him feel winded, all hot and then freezing, like being thrown into cold water. And the next thing he knows, Mordred is standing over him, his eyes blazing.

“You are protected by a powerful magic, Arthur Pendragon. He really must have loved you. But he’s gone now and you _will_ have to choose sides. And whether you like it or not, I might be your only option. It’s either me or death for you.”

Arthur’s so, so angry. He won’t allow Mordred to manipulate him into anything. He’s sorry the invitation to Beltane had an underlying reason. It’s disappointing. He stands up, too, the fires of Beltane suddenly losing their charm—after all they’re nothing but campfires, good for frying sausages or burning old leaves. He does up his shirt and wraps his arms around himself, heading back down the hill, cold and tired, not looking behind him at Mordred or the Beltane dancers, and thinking only of getting to his car as fast as he can and then home.

Back in his apartment, he stays in the shower for ages under the spray of hot water, trying to warm up, trying to wash off the last remnants of mud, feeling unreal in the sharp light of his bathroom. He steps out of the shower, shivering again and rubbing the towel in fast movements. The metal pendant is wet and uncomfortable on his chest so he takes it off only to see there’s an imprint of crescent on his skin, flesh angry and sensitive like after a burn. He winces as he traces it with his fingertips and tucks the pendant under his pillow.

He wakes up in darkness, his heart almost jumping out of his chest. The shadows behind the window seem to move in an unnatural, menacing way. His mind is full of dreams that feel like memories. There are visions of battles and death, of people being slaughtered with a sword, of dragons, of vicious, powerful magic, and of cold nights in a dark, old castle. He turns on each and every lamp in the apartment, but it doesn’t help him to calm down, and he sits shivering in front of the TV until it’s dawn and he can go for his early morning run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words of prayer taken from Am Beannachadh Bealltain (The Beltane Blessing) Carmina Gadelica, Alexander Carmichael


	10. Bristol

Summer comes, and with it a longing awakes in Arthur—so strong that it affects his every action, consumes his every dream and conscious thought. He can’t concentrate on work; he’s mixing up the hours of his meetings, sending e-mails to the wrong people, and making typos in his presentations while his palms glide on the keyboard, sweaty despite the air conditioning. He spends his nights plastered to the cool surface of his kitchen table or sitting on the marble tiles on the floor, gasping for air. Memories of glistening water and Em’s smooth skin beneath his fingers, looking so unreal in the yellow light inside Ygraine’s cabin, torture him.

It is in that state of mind in which he finds himself in Bristol, standing in front of the train station. He digs out his phone to dial Em’s number. Actually, it might not even be Em’s number anymore—perhaps he’s changed it ages ago.

“Hello?” Arthur’s heart drops to his feet at the sound of Em’s voice. He hadn’t expected Em to answer. He’s got absolutely no idea what he should say. Seconds tick while Em’s waiting on the other end for Arthur to speak. So he does, words spinning out too quickly as if he’s trying to catch Em in a web of them to prolong the connection.

“Hi, it’s Arthur. I’m here. Bristol, I mean. Just for a few hours for a meeting, but now it’s over and I don’t have to go just yet, so I was wondering if you’re here. And if you _are_ , then maybe you’d be free to… Maybe you’d like to go for a coffee? Or an iced coffee? This bloody heat is just _killing_ me.”

There’s silence on the other end and Arthur thinks that he’s probably crossed the line and Em surely doesn’t want to see him or even talk to him—he’s got his new life here and they haven’t spoken for so long.

“Um, sure. Where are you?”

“Temple Meads?” Arthur says it like a question because he doesn’t believe it’s happening.

“Would you mind coming to Clifton though? I’m just finishing here for today in a few.”

“No, not at all.” Arthur’s grinning, but his hands are trembling and are slippery from sweat when he tries to write down the directions.  
  
xxx  
  
Em looks good—fresh, young, his hair long and eyes bright. Arthur’s fingers twitch to reach, to touch, but he checks himself, opting for “Hi.”

“So,” Em says, fidgeting a bit and crinkling his eyes at the sun shining straight into his face. “How was your meeting?”

“Unnecessary.”

“That sucks.”

“That’s okay.” Arthur shrugs. _It was worth it. Worth seeing you,_ he wants to add, but doesn’t. They stand facing each other, the stiffness of the situation creeping up on them.

“So, coffee then?” Arthur asks before it all gets any more awkward.

The nearest coffee shop is closed for renovations and the next one is packed. The third one doesn’t serve iced latte, so they get take-away sandwiches and soda instead. Somehow they find themselves walking and walking in the hot summer sun, up and down Bristol’s hills, the river beckoning them like a magnet. They sit on rocks, watching the cars pass by on the Bridge. Arthur has to admit it impresses him the way it’s hunched over the river, so high up.

The heat is suffocating, very unusual for Bristol. It’s making Arthur feel all sticky and itchy in the light wool of his suit.

“God, it’s hot,” he complains. Even his words seem to be melting, glued to each other like the underside of shoes to heated asphalt. He takes a sip of the soda and hands Em one of the sandwiches he’s purchased.

Em unwraps the package. “Salmon?”

“Shit. You don’t eat fish. I didn’t know what was in them.”

“No, that’s okay. I actually do eat fish now, but it’s rarely salmon. That’s just posh.” Em laughs. Arthur wonders what else has changed in Em’s life, what else he’s missed. “You can’t be picky when you’ve got forever-hungry mates in the house and only earn so much at that dusty Xerox place you picked me up from,” Em adds, making his voice sound as if it’s _tragic_ , but he’s smiling.

“So, no more _Merlin_?” Arthur asks, and Em’s expression falters, his face closing. It’s as if a shadow’s covered the Earth all of a sudden.

“No. No more of that. I was wrong back then. Magic shouldn’t be used in that way.”

Arthur thinks that Em’s right, but he keeps silent. There’s so much he wants to say to Em. He wants to tell him about the Beltane festival—how it felt to have magic all around him again—and to ask him about prophecies and Mordred gaining power. He wants to tell Em about the dreams that torture him. But as he watches Em in those brief moments when he’s sure Em isn’t looking, all he really yearns for is to reach out for Em. To say, _Whatever you did, I don’t care. Whatever he was to you, I don’t care._ Because he just wants this: Em back at his side, eating together, breathing the same air together. It’s a familiar, desperate need, one that makes his eyes water and his chest ache.

But then again, there’s the heat of the summer around them, and Em’s guarded posture, Em’s careful sentences, and the avoidance of what’s important hangs palpably in the air between them creating a distance that is impossible to close.

“Listen, I need to get back,” Em says.

“I can walk you back to your place,” Arthur proposes, because he doesn’t want this to be over, not yet. He wants to fix this, even if he doesn’t actually know what to do or how to mend it.

xxx

Em lives in one of those little white rented houses with narrow stairs, kitchen _dying_ under piles of Tupperware containers and dirty dishes, and a living room filled with Xbox pads, ashtrays and guitars. Arthur stands in the middle of the chaos waiting for Em to bring him something to drink. Even though Em had said, “Do you want to come in for a moment?” Arthur wonders if he’s imposing.

“Em, is that you? Did you buy bread? Because we’ve run out again.” Down the stairs comes a young man with a well-defined bare chest and a hurricane of dark hair on his head. He grins wide, flashing perfectly white teeth.

“Oh, hi there.” He waves to Arthur and peeks into the kitchen. “Who’s that insanely gorgeous guy you brought home?” he whispers dramatically to Em, who is emerging with a glass of water. “Do I need to be jealous?”

“It’s _Arthur_. Arthur, this is Gwaine, my… housemate. He’s doing his sociology post-grad here.” Em looks down, as if he’s about to introduce the carpet, too. And if Arthur hadn’t been watching Gwaine closely he would’ve missed the little flinch there. Gwaine’s face clouds just a bit; his smile is still present but not that bright anymore.

“ _The_ Arthur,” Gwaine states, and Em bites his lip. The air in the room seems to thicken as something unspoken passes between Em and Gwaine.

Arthur whips out his phone and checks the time. “I gotta run,” he says. _Before I mess all this up any more,_ he thinks.

Again, he doesn’t know what’s natural in this situation—should he kiss Em on the cheek or shake his hand or _what?_ He opts for waving his hand in Em’s general direction as he strolls back to the hall and out the door.

“Arthur, wait!” Em shouts, running after him onto the street.

Arthur turns around. He waits.

“We’ll keep in touch this time, yeah?” Em finally says.

“Yes. Definitely. Definitely.” Arthur nods even though he’s sure they won’t. He won’t dare disturb Em’s chance to live a normal life. And he isn’t masochistic enough to expose himself to the burning ache that the sight of Em and the sound of Em’s voice evoke in him.  
  
xxx  
  
Later, he sits in the train looking out of the window as the landscape slides by in a rhythmic pace. Each _tack-tack_ of the train wheels taking him farther away from Em feels like a punch to his gut. He holds his breath and drinks his too-light tea from a styrofoam cup in long gulps that burn his throat. He’s not sure what exactly he expected in coming to Bristol, and yet he can’t get rid of the bitter taste of disappointment, the feeling of losing something he didn’t even have in the first place.

 _God, the look on that other boy’s face when Em introduced him as just his housemate._ “ _The_ Arthur _,_ ”he’d said. That means Em must have been talking about him, but what did he say? Did he mention how Arthur left him in Ealdor? Did he frown while recalling that with Arthur he always had to pretend they weren’t a couple? Did he say he’d chosen someone else over Arthur once, and that Arthur wouldn’t let him explain? But how can Arthur blame him? Em should be with someone open and real—someone like that Gwaine guy who obviously cares.

He’s blown his chance with Em—or maybe he never really had one in the first place. Maybe there isn’t any destiny meant for the two of them. He thinks that now he must catalogue Em as one of those people and things in his life that just _passed_ —like Ian, his best friend from primary school, or Mrs Sigs, who taught him to spread butter on sandwiches and lace his shoes, or that seaside place they used to spend holidays in long ago, or his favourite red jumper with the Mickey Mouse on it he lost when they moved that time when he was ten.

xxx

Seeing Em hasn’t settled the frenzied feeling in Arthur; if anything, it’s made it worse. And even though the hot weather has finally eased, he still can’t sleep. The empty apartment is unsettling. _Maybe I could get a dog or a cat,_ he thinks. But the animal would be alone for most of the day so it would just be cruel. He tries to tire himself enough so he doesn’t have energy for anything in the evenings—working, running, and working again—yet still it’s not enough to calm him down.

At last, he enrols in fencing lessons at a nearby medieval martial arts school, surprised that the blade feels so right in his hand. It’s synthetic, but the weight makes it feel real, and the handle is smooth as it rests in Arthur’s steady grip.

“Arthur, this is Owain, your sparring partner for today,” his coach says during one of the sessions, turning towards a young, slim man whom Arthur hasn’t seen yet in class. “Owain’s visiting us from the Boar’s Tooth School of Martial Arts.”

Owain smiles, warm and boyish, small wrinkles around his blue eyes, and shakes Arthur’s hand. “So, I hear you’ve got some natural-born talent, huh? How long have you been doing sword-fighting?”

“I don’t know. It’s… what?” Arthur looks at the coach, as if seeking the correct answer. “Two months? Something like that.”

“Don’t judge him by the time he’s spent training, though,” the coach says to Owain. “He’s practically ready to go to the tournament.”

He’s been pestering Arthur about the tournament for a while now, but Arthur doesn’t care. All he wants is to burn out the energy that fuels hazy visions in his head.

Owain is a very skilful opponent and it’s a good fight. By the end of the training session Arthur is panting and sweating, feeling more satisfied than he’s felt in weeks. When Owain knocks him to the ground and holds his hand out to Arthur to help him up, their touch lingers just a tad too long and Arthur looks up to see Owain assessing him from under his eyelashes. A moment of recognition passes and the next thing Owain’s asking, “Would you like to get a drink after practice?” And maybe it’s not a good idea, but there’s something a little bit familiar in the young man’s plush lips, high cheekbones, and sweet smile that makes Arthur say, “Yeah,” and “I’d love to.” Because… hell, why not?

The pub they go to is crowded and loud but it serves decent drinks, and soon both of them are a little bit drunk. Drunk enough that when Owain leans over and kisses him, Arthur doesn’t even flinch. Owain’s mouth tastes like cigarettes and rum, and the kiss is wet with too much tongue, but it doesn’t bother Arthur as much as he thought it would. When Owain’s warm hand sneaks under Arthur’s T-shirt, he suddenly feels that he wants this very, very much. He craves this firm touch and the feeling of being wanted like this. That’s why, when Owain breaks the kiss and starts nuzzling in Arthur’s neck, he asks, “You want to come over to mine?”

The cool air of the night clears Arthur’s head just a little—enough to make him reconsider what they’re about to do once they’ve reached Arthur’s home. It might have seemed like a good idea, but now Arthur isn’t so sure anymore. The silence in the apartment makes every shuffle of clothes, every breath and swallow, loud and intimidating.

Owain’s starting to take his clothes off and, God, he is a beautiful man, all lean and defined with dark hair going down his navel, but it’s not what Arthur wants _, it’s not what he wants!_ But he isn’t backing out of this now, not when they’ve come so far, so he stays there shaking a bit until Owain approaches him, asking, “How would you like to do this? You-me or me-you?”

Arthur thinks about it for a while. If he’s going to do this, he might as well go all the way. “You-me. Please.”

The still-lingering effects of alcohol make everything hazy—skin too numb for touch and mouths too eager to nibble and bite. They find their way to the bed and Arthur hands Owain lube and a condom from the bedside drawer, and if his hands tremble a bit he hopes it’ll be seen as an effect of the chilly night and after-training exhaustion.

Owain is gentle as he starts opening Arthur, slowly and carefully, but his fingers feel too thick, and Arthur feels way too exposed lying on the bed with his legs sprawled wide, only half-hard. But then Owain grabs their cocks in a fist and jerks them both with firm strokes while leaning to lick Arthur’s nipples, and Arthur closes his eyes, allowing arousal to take over. He reaches for Owain’s arms, enjoying how the strong muscles in them move underneath his fingers.

When Owain pushes inside him Arthur breathes through it, grits his teeth not to make a sound, stills his hands not to give his anxiety away. After a moment though, when he’s able to focus on the feeling of being filled and dares to move his hand to cup his dick and give it a squeeze, it’s beginning to feel delicious. Owain’s arms are slippery with sweat and Arthur knows his own face must be sweaty too, hair sticking to his forehead. His cheeks are burning and his lips are dry.

Glimpses of their moving limbs and Owain’s cock disappearing inside of him drive Arthur to the edge but he can’t concentrate; he keeps losing the rhythm and gains it back, chasing the orgasm. When it finally comes, it’s a typical post-alcohol one—disappointingly going only to the surface without the blinding force of climax Arthur has hoped for. But Owain fucks him through it with long, hard thrusts, prolonging the feeling, and it’s actually good, it’s fine—that burning slide in and slide out. It stirs something deep inside Arthur and he chokes out, “Oh, oh,” while Owain’s pulsing and straining with his own orgasm.

xxx

Owain is sleeping with his limbs spread wide in Arthur’s bed, taking up too much space. His heavy breaths fill the night’s silence. Arthur leans back on the headboard trying not to move too much. Owain’s unfamiliar scent and the little noises he makes in his sleep irritate him and somehow sadden him. He has no idea what he expected when he asked the guy home, but he feels as though he’s achieved nothing. He stands up, puts his jeans on, and reaches for Owain’s pack of cigarettes. He takes one out, then goes to the kitchen, his bare feet padding softly on the tiled floor. Finding a lighter in his kitchen isn’t easy, but finally he manages to spot an old box of matches wedged behind the blender. He slips on his sneakers, grabs a coat, and goes out on the balcony.

The cigarette feels weird between his lips—fat and foreign. It’s been ages since he last smoked. He takes the first drag, wondering what he ever saw in this foul habit. But the motion of his hand and the inhaling of the smoke is an old pattern that is indeed soothing. There’s something magical in the way the smoke enters his mouth and lungs and then—exhaled—curls and drifts, barely visible in the night air. Yet the taste it leaves on Arthur’s tongue isn’t what he expected and he frowns in disgust, pressing his head against the wall as he sinks to the floor of the balcony. He wraps his arms around himself, tugging his jacket close against the chill of the night. His cigarette, forgotten, burns out slowly between his fingers. Arthur thinks that neither the sex nor the cig were worth trying out.

Eventually, Arthur gets too cold to stay outside, but he doesn’t go back to his bed. He opts for the couch instead.

In the morning he asks Owain politely if he’d like a cuppa before leaving. They both know Owain should say “no” and head home, and the guy actually has enough sense to do so. When he leaves, the soft click of the front door shutting him out from the flat, Arthur exhales in relief.

He strips his bed and leaves the sheets in the laundry basket for Martha to wash. 


	11. Long live the King

Arthur can smell Owain on himself for days. He showers, scrubs his skin until it’s pink and raw, even changes his body wash, but no matter what he does the scent lingers on him as if buried deep inside the cells of his body. It drives him crazy; he sniffs at himself and cringes with disgust. He’s desperate to get rid of it, along with the flashbacks of the night that disturb him and feel like a blow each time they overflow his thoughts. If he can’t erase the feeling, he needs to cover it up, shift it somehow. He needs to find someone safe—someone who won’t feel alien, and who’ll understand.

He waits until everyone’s cleared the office for the day, shuts the lid of his laptop, wipes his hands over his trousers, and walks towards Gwen’s desk.

“Gwen, would you have dinner with me?”

She looks up from behind her laptop, hesitates. “Uh, sure,” and then she looks at him more closely. “Me and Lance are grabbing Thai in a bit. Come with us?”

“Lance?” Arthur says it like a question.

“Arthur…” she starts, and he already knows it’s a mistake. “You know I’m getting married next month.”

“What?” It just slips from Arthur’s mouth, because… _what?_

“You’ve had my invitation on your desk since, like, forever now. You’ve _opened_ it.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Right. Of course I do. I was just...” He brushes his hand through his hair and shrugs. His hand falters mid-move, hanging in the air without purpose. He wants to retreat, not say anything again that would make him humiliate himself even more, but he’s stuck there instead, right in the middle of the room.

“Jesus,” he finally says. “I’m sorry.” He turns around and walks quickly to his office, the door behind him closing with a soft thud. He sits by his desk and sure enough there it is—the creamy, elegant card, golden letters bold and proud shouting _Gwen and Lancelot_ to him. He remembers Lancelot. He should’ve known. Gwen surely talked about this.

He puts his arms on the closed lid of his laptop and lays his head on them.

“Arthur?” He hears Gwen’s voice too close and jumps back because it’s so lame how he’s sitting here, so pathetic.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He shakes his head, rubs his forehead and sticks one hand into his floppy fringe again. God, he needs a haircut. “Just tired. Long day, that’s all.”

“No… I mean…” Gwen sighs and crouches down next to him, placing her hand on his thigh. “You miss him, don’t you?”

He should deny it. He even starts to say, “I’m fine…” automatically, but stops and shakes his head again because this is Gwen and why does he hide it from her? Who else would understand the way she always does?

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s been over for a long time. More than a year. He’s…” He waves his hand. “Just.” He won’t cry in front of Gwen, won’t allow himself to. So he swallows, takes his mug, and finishes his tea even though it’s cold now.

Gwen stands up and straightens the wrinkles on her skirt. “Do you want to hang out with us tonight though?”

Arthur won’t take the offer—it’s too close to pity for him to stomach it. He can’t stand the gentleness in Gwen’s voice, the concern in her eyes as if he were an egg about to break at the wrong word. Still, he’s grateful.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he says sincerely. “But I think I’ll just head home. Catch up on the sleeping thing.” And God, does he mean it; the lack of sleep has been killing him again. If only he could actually shut his brain off along with the lights and fall asleep before it’s dawn. Maybe he should try not to turn on his laptop, and the TV with all the Premiere League news, and his phone with its constant inflow of e-mails.

He takes his keys and Gwen’s invitation from the desk, pats his pockets to see if he’s got everything, then fiddles with his phone for a moment, activating and shutting off the screen a few times.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll just head home.” He’s about to leave when he turns around. “Gwen?”

She stops gathering papers from his desk to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?”

He motions to the space between them. “Us. I’m sorry.”

Gwen holds his gaze for a while. “Me too,” she says. Again, there’s no accusation in her voice. She walks towards him and kisses him on the cheek, ruffles his hair gently, and leaves her hand on his neck for a while where it slipped. It’s warm. It’s a nice feeling.

“Try to take better care of yourself, okay?” she asks.

Arthur nods. “I will.” 

xxx

Arthur’s in Uther’s office discussing plans for the next season and the possibility of running a series of documentaries about the history of magic in Britain, but he can’t focus.

“Arthur, are you even listening to me?” Uther huffs, looking annoyed and disappointed. As usual.

“Yes. Sorry, Father. You were saying?”

“I said that I don’t want any magical fuckery on my TV. No matter what the polls say, and no matter what devilish tricks that boy did to your head.”

“What boy?” Arthur’s heart is beating so loudly he’s sure even Catrina on the other side of the door must hear it.

“The boy you used to date, Arthur,” his father explains, feigning patience. “The one who lived with you. The scrawny wizard.”

“Who told you that we dated?”

“Don’t be silly, and—more importantly—don’t underestimate me.”

“It was nothing, Father,” Arthur says, wanting to believe it himself. “He’s gone now, anyway.” There’s a bitterness to his voice he can’t hide.

“I know that he’s gone. I saw to that when he blew that girl up. We couldn’t have you involved in a trial on magical homicide.”

“What?” Arthur manages to choke out.

“Why are you surprised? You’re clearly not capable of making the right life choices, Arthur. Someone has to take care of your recklessness.”

If Uther meddled with Em’s staying away from Arthur, it must have been bad. It couldn’t have been just money, although Arthur’s sure Uther must have started his bargains with a bribe. But Em can’t be bought—Arthur knows him, knew him, enough to be sure of it. So there must have been something else, maybe related to Em’s mother, or Arthur himself. He remembers how shattered Em was in Ealdor, how broken he sounded on the phone. 

Arthur sees white. This is what ultimate fury must feel like. Not red like blood, not black like tar—just pure, flashing white. He wants to flee before he does something irrevocable, something really bad, but he feels as if he’s being held in place by Uther’s firm gaze.

He’ll always blame himself for what happens next, even though he knows it’s not his fault—just natural factors. But there must be something like a bad energy flying in the world. If there’s magic it has to grow from something. And if Arthur wished for his father’s death he must have provoked it somehow.

He’s sure he’ll never be able to shake off the view of his father swaying uncontrollably over his desk—his hands grasping at the wooden surface in vain.

Instead of checking on Uther, calling an ambulance, doing _anything,_ Arthur just stares and then turns around and storms out of the room.

“Father’s on the floor,” he tells Catrina. And thank God she has enough sense to run to Uther, taking her phone out and dialling for help as she goes.

It’s Arthur who points to the room when the paramedics arrive. And then, when the door of the ambulance is shut, he’s left standing alone with Uther’s shoes—which have been taken off for whatever reason—in his hands.

He follows the ambulance in his own car, and once he’s at the hospital he has trouble finding the right floor and corridor leading to the ICU. When he finally succeeds, and the lady at the front desk confirms his identity, his father is already in the room—hooked up to all the frightening-looking machines and IVs. He looks small and totally out of place, so unusually silent and dependent on the decisions of those around him. The harsh sound of beeping monitors and the distant shuffles of hospital noise fill the room.

“Arthur Pendragon?” a plump woman dressed in hospital scrubs asks, startling him.

“Yes.” He turns to her.

“I’m Alice Martin and I’ll be your father’s attending physician.”

The woman explains in detail what has happened, but all Arthur can make out is “stroke” and “paralysis” and  “we’re trying to minimize…”

“Thank you,” Arthur says. His hands are still sweating, and neither the burning feeling in his stomach nor the dryness in his mouth abates. This whole setting brings back memories of Em in a similar, only less elegant, emergency corridor.

Arthur thinks that if he never again sees a hospital in his life it’ll still be too soon.

xxx

The doctors say Uther’s rehabilitation will take time, but it’s not only the physical part of him that’s changed. It’s more than just trouble speaking or eating, what with the right side of the body non-responsive. It’s also a shift in his personality: the stroke has affected some part of his brain responsible for motives and emotion. It’s vastly disturbing how clingy and affectionate Uther’s become. Arthur has never seen his father like this, in such a vulnerable state. He insists on holding Arthur’s hand whenever Arthur’s visiting him, which feels uncomfortable. Arthur tenses, feeling awkward, embarrassed and trapped, like he’s being held against his will.

 _Jesus. Fuck. He’s my_ father, he thinks. _It shouldn’t feel this unnatural. It’s a completely normal thing for a parent to hold his child’s hand. What kind of a son am I?_

But the guilt does nothing to ease his discomfort. He tries to distract himself by reporting all the things that have happened in the Camelot during Uther’s absence, but Uther isn’t interested. He mumbles something, and Arthur struggles to understand what his father wants—words slur and twist as the right side of Uther’s face sags down and saliva drips down his chin. Arthur hands Uther a notepad, but his father just pushes it away with his good hand and tries to say something again.

 _I’ve forgotten letters._ Arthur deciphers with much effort. _I remember the letter Y, but I don’t know the rest of them._

Arthur hears the situation can be temporary and Uther might get better if he works hard enough with his physiotherapist. But it seems that Uther has given up, and it’s obvious he won’t come back to work when he doesn’t even _try_ to re-learn how to read or write, or hold a spoon correctly.

The nomination of Arthur to the position of CEO of Camelot Media is only a technicality.

xxx

“What is it?” Arthur asks when—on top of the mountains of paperwork he receives after being officially accepted as the new CEO—Catrina hands him a grey card and a flash drive.

“Access card and codes to the Vault,” Catrina spits, looking at Arthur as if he doesn’t deserve whatever she’s giving him.

“The Vault?” _Of course_ the Vault exists. After Mordred mentioned it during the Beltane festival, Arthur tried to talk with his father about it but was met with, “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. You have been to the archives and you’ve seen there’s nothing like this.”

Now, Arthur just shakes his head at Catrina. “Thank you. That’d be all for now.” He dismisses her. He’s got more urgent data to attend to than a mysterious vault full of old footage. The fate of the entire company rests on his shoulders now, after all.

So it’s almost a month later, a month filled with too much work—catching up on Uther’s notes, meetings with the board, press interviews, and business lunches with all the shareholders—before he gets back to the flash drive. It’s past ten p.m. and most of his employees are already out of the building. The office lights are only half-lit. The white noise of the air conditioning is soothing.

He makes himself some tea and sits in front of his laptop, then clicks on the file. An Excel list opens with names of files, dates, and passwords. Some cells contain only numbers, others seem to be abbreviations or descriptions that don’t tell him much. He sighs, puts his tea aside, and takes the elevator down to the archives.

It feels strange to be here by himself among the long rows of shelves with film rolls hidden in metal boxes, all catalogued and numbered. Most of the files have been digitized, anyway. He walks straight to the other side of the corridor where he knows there is a space marked “Private.” He presses his access card to the reader and taps the code into the keypad. The door clicks open with a beep.

He’s always thought that it was additional storage place. But it’s _packed_ with film boxes—dusty and in disarray, but otherwise untouched by time. He reaches for the first box on the pile next to the door. It’s marked “INTV. MAG.80-RIOT1”. He opens the box and holds the film to the light but it’s an image of a man he doesn’t recognize. He takes the box back to the main archive area and plugs in on an old editing table, then finds an empty plastic reel, puts the film through all the loops and holes and presses the “play” handle.

The film seems to be an unedited set of interviews with random people—done in various places and times. Arthur takes it off the table and goes back to the Vault to bring some more boxes.

“What the…” he gasps, staring at the screen where a group of people are going after a man and tearing him down from the roof of a shop. A burning bottle lands in the middle of the mass of bodies, and people scatter while the man who’s been chased is set on fire—a moving figure of burning limbs, flailing and stumbling before falling to the ground.

Arthur’s grateful he hasn’t matched the footage with the sound.

He was two when the first Riots of the magical ones took place in London, so he doesn’t remember anything from that first wave of resistance, and people rarely speak about it. He wonders if this is what Em was talking about when he explained what had happened to Muirden during the second Riots twelve years later.

He takes another film out of a box and finds the accompanying sound track. He checks the markings to keep it synced and turns it on. The sound starts with a whiz and then catches up with the image. This is more riot footage, and people are running on this one. The images are blurry and shaky as if the camera man was escaping, too.

“There will be no consent to violence,” the Prime Minister says sternly on yet another reel. It’s a public speech held in a big hall. “We can’t and we will not tolerate the attempts…” The speech goes on but Arthur doesn’t listen; he’s fixated on a figure standing behind the Prime Minister. There’s Uther there, and God, he looks so young. He’s holding a pile of papers and is nodding to a person next to him. Arthur should have suspected his father had his hand in the preparation of the harsh laws concerning the magical ones.

It’s way past midnight when Arthur takes a breather. The Vault is basically a living history—piles of film boxes and Avid beta-tapes grouped by years—documenting every event large and small concerning the relations between the magical ones and ordinary citizens. Arthur remembers the second Riots of ‘92 but he’s never seen the things behind the scenes. Here, he’s got everything—public polls, blurry pictures from hotel rooms, voice recordings of people he doesn’t recognize. It’s hours of interviews he won’t even try to watch now.

He feels lightheaded, jittery, and his hands shake a little. He realises he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, so he pushes the boxes back into the dusty room, closes the door and heads home. He’ll look at the material later. He’s got a feeling it’ll take him _weeks_.

By the time he reaches the last box, marked as “WW2-INT,” it’s Christmas, and Arthur can’t believe he’s spent most of his nights during the last three months practically buried in Vault archives, watching and taking notes on all the films. Now, bright coloured lights and cheesy Christmas music are creating an odd juxtaposition with the images of waves of Riots Arthur can’t erase from his mind. How can people not know what really happened? Why doesn’t anyone speak about the literal massacres of magical ones? Of burning stakes in the fucking twenty-first century?

But there are other testimonials, too. History of the use of dark magic dating back to the Second World War and beyond. Pictures of people wounded and twisted unnaturally, piles of corpses with charred imprints of magical terrorists’ organizations.

 _Mordred was right,_ Arthur thinks. The magical ones were oppressed. Yet they weren’t innocent, either, and nothing is black and white.

xxx

Fireworks are crossing the sky in colourful bursts while Arthur stands on Gwen and Lance’s balcony with a flute of cheap champagne. Behind him, in the living room that’s decorated with balloons and streamers, people are cheering, kissing each other, and singing Auld Lang Syne. Arthur thinks that whatever his destiny is in this world, he’s been living his life all wrong. He’s been selfish, focused on his own little dramas, while he should’ve seen the bigger picture. He makes a vow to himself as a New Year’s resolution that from now on it’ll change. He’ll change.


	12. The Revolution

It’s a huge congress with both magical and non-magical attendees, and Arthur’s invited to the talks. What started as a series of documentaries on the history of magic in the UK, based on the footage discovered in the Vault, has triggered changes Arthur had not anticipated.

Arthur thinks of his father and feels a pang of guilt. But then he reminds himself that Uther is most probably propped up on pillows in his room, busy watching TV, not caring about anything real. He wonders if Uther can recognise his son on the news, sitting at the table with magic users, participating in the creation of history just like Uther did years ago. It feels like he’s mocking his father, but hell, Arthur won’t allow anyone to dictate what he should or shouldn’t do.

During the banquet after the debates he tries to navigate through the crowds. People are congratulatory, even though Arthur’s sure they haven’t seen a minute of the documentaries or taken time to listen to what Arthur has had to say during the talks.

“Great speech. This is a move in the right direction, Arthur,” says a dark-haired man Arthur doesn’t remember meeting. “A very brave one.” He shakes Arthur’s hand and Arthur nods, mumbling his ‘thank yous.’ “I remember when I was…” the man continues, but Arthur isn’t listening—he’s looking around, trying to see if the only magical person he cares about has arrived at the talks. He knows Emrys got an invitation. He made sure of it himself. Over the last three years he’s tried not to disturb Em’s life in any way. He’s tried not to even _think_ of Em. But in reality, he’s desperate to see him.

Another person congratulates him and Arthur cringes a little. He doesn't feel like the documentaries are an accomplishment. It’s just a small drop in a large bucket. Most of the time he's got no idea what he's doing. He can't see the future of Camelot Media, either. He doesn't have any great long-term goals or clear vision of where the company will be in the next few years. He doesn’t feel that he’s influencing people’s views or changing the world. He keeps doing what he can to make decent TV, that’s it. He tries not to judge, not to be narrow-sighted. And yes, he does try to think through his every decision to eliminate possible bad consequences, but most of the time he's just following his instincts.

It eats up all his energy though. He wouldn’t say he’s happy or that he’s unhappy; he’s just pushing forward—the wash, rinse and repeat of days and the short oblivion of nights.

“Hello Arthur,” a velvety voice—one he remembers from another life, a life that he’s keeping closed off—cuts through his thoughts. He turns around.

“Mordred.” Sometime during these last few years he’s grown up to be a man. He’s still attractive though. He’s got the same long waves of dark hair framing his pale face and the same striking blue eyes piercing from underneath long eyelashes.

“I just wanted to… well, congratulate, yes,” Mordred says. “And talk to you, actually. And apologise.”

“For what?” Arthur asks, every word sounding like an ice cube falling into a glass.

“For judging you back then. I didn’t think you had it in you to stand up to your father. To start all this.” He motions around them. “You’ve proved me wrong.”

Arthur takes a sip of wine from the glass Mordred has passed to him from a waiter and looks the other way. He refuses to let Mordred see that he still can’t talk to Mordred without thinking of Em, even after all the time that has gone by.

“It’s crazy how much in love with him I was back then,” Mordred says, as if he were reading Arthur’s thoughts.

Arthur looks back at Mordred—at that cold, expressionless face—and tries to _understand_. “I guess we both were,” he offers. Of all the things in the world, he never thought he’d be standing with Mordred, drinking wine and reminiscing about loving Em.

Mordred places his hand on Arthur’s wrist—his fingers are cold and unpleasantly damp. “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

Arthur takes a breath, drinks the last of his wine, and places the empty glass on a nearby table. Mordred watches Arthur’s moves like a predator. It makes him self-conscious.

“So, what’s your opinion on the talks? Are you satisfied with the course of events?” Arthur asks. He wants to know the real motive behind Mordred’s sudden friendliness.

“No,” Mordred says.

“Why? Isn’t it what you wanted? The magical people are going to have their rights now.”

“You know why. We were about to start.”

Arthur takes a sharp intake of breath. “The revolution.” He’s heard rumours about ultra-radical fractions in magical community, about Mordred’s involvement in it, but no one has confirmed it, until now.  “Why would you think I wouldn’t support it?”

“Your father—“ Morded starts.

“I’m not my father. I believe we can make this work. This is what this congress is for.”

Mordred looks at him as if he’s being ridiculous. “It only makes things worse.”

“How so?”

“Because the way you do it, it takes time. It takes _ages_. And some of us don’t, or won’t, wait for slow change. _I_ am not going to wait!” Mordred says. “Don’t you see? I had it all planned. I had people and resources. We were going to take over and give the magical ones their proper place—as the rulers, Arthur, more than equals.”

The room is floating a bit and Arthur’s stomach is getting quivery. He should have eaten something instead of drinking on empty stomach.

“You’ve messed it all up,” Mordred continues. “Some of us would like to do things your way now, and I can’t afford to have a split in the magical community. I am truly sorry, Arthur. Perhaps in another time and in other circumstances we could have been friends. But I won’t allow you to take everything from me for the second time.”

Before Arthur can respond, Mordred’s gone—a lean form retreating to the exit. His clammy touch lingers on Arthur’s skin.

xxx

He feels it first in his toes. They start to tingle and then go numb. Then his palms begin to itch, and when he looks down at them he’s suddenly dizzy. He needs to lie down, right now, so he does, vaguely registering people watching him with astonishment as he first sits down and then lies on his side next to the table with the tartlets and the fruit, its long white tablecloth tickling his neck.

Heavy wool threads are wrapped all around him. He’s bound tight and doesn’t understand how something so light can be so heavy. Is it soaked? But wouldn’t he feel _wet_ then? He tries to push the wool from his eyes and nose but it only tangles more, entering his mouth, tying his tongue, invading his nostrils. _How funny,_ he chuckles. _He’ll suffocate without anyone knowing someone wrapped him up in this white wool._

The strings of wool tighten more and he gives up on breathing. It’s actually quite nice in here—warm and cosy and safe, aside from the not breathing part. If this is dying, he _likes_ it. Why not? He hasn’t felt relaxed for so long now. He really wants to sleep. He knows he can sleep in this soft, woolly world.

But then someone sets the wool on fire. He is burning alive! Why would anyone do this? He tries to unwrap himself from the layers of fabric. To run away. But the fire seems to be coming from the inside, as if his body was the source of it. He’s screaming, but no one will hear underneath all that fabric! Hot tears start to flow down his cheeks.

“Arthur,” says a familiar voice. An impossible voice. The long repressed memories rush to the surface with a pang of sorrow so sharp Arthur wants to double over even while he’s burning. Someone’s unwrapping the wool, putting out the fire. He feels a light touch on his wrist which sends a gentle, cool current up his body, and he wonders if there exists something like memory of the flesh, if maybe he’s got it imprinted in his bones and muscles. His body relaxes under that touch. The burn in his insides eases, and the animalistic fear wanes. With it comes the acceptance of whatever fate awaits him.

“Arthur, please open your eyes,” the voice insists, and Arthur complies, dreading the view, but knowing that he must, because he needs to see for himself.

He meets the dark blue—the colour that haunts his dreams—and then the blue changes to gold and fades until there’s nothing but cool white all around him.

xxx

When he wakes up, probably hours later, or maybe minutes, he’s in a hotel bedroom—minimalistic greys and elegant dark reds surrounding him in a soulless comfort. It’s dark outside, but Arthur can’t tell the hour. He grunts, trying to get up and feeling as if the world’s worst hangover has hit his whole body.

_Gonna be sick_ , he thinks and moans, pulling himself to an upright position. A strong hand stills him.

“Here,” Leon says and holds out a silver ice bucket for Arthur to be sick into.

Arthur slumps back on the bed, his head pounding, flesh shivery, hands shaking when he covers his eyes with the back of his palm.

“What happened?” he mumbles, cringing from the smell of his breath. “Could you bring me some water?”

Leon hands him a glass—he must have had it ready to go.

“Fuck, Arthur, this is exactly what I kept telling you would happen!” Leon says angrily. “I knew Mordred was a threat to you. I told you not to expose yourself like that! We were prepared in case he’d use magic, but we hadn’t foreseen that he’d try to _poison_ you of all things.”

Is that what that was? A poison? Arthur should be scared. He should be angry. He should be throwing a tantrum right now, demanding explanations and immediate actions. But he can’t bring himself to care. He just wants to be left in peace to relive the earlier vision of blue eyes, of Em coming to his rescue, the imaginary scene his brain supplied while short-circuiting from whatever magical poison was in the wine Mordred had handed to him.

There’s the clicking of dishes down the hall, and the rhythmic tick-tack of the wall clock in the other room. Arthur brings his hand to brush the hair out of his eyes—when did it grow so long again?—and stops mid-motion at the sudden glimpse of gold. He holds his palm in front of his eyes. The outline of shimmering gold is unmistakable.

“My God,” he says. “It was real.”

“What was?” Leon asks.

“I have to go.” Arthur sits up, all the pillows and heavy duvet falling in a plush avalanche onto the floor. He stifles a groan when a new wave of nausea hits him. His head is still pounding with headache. The carpet is definitely moving under his feet and there’s no way to tell up from down.

“Emrys said you have to _sleep_ , and that he’ll talk to you as soon as you feel better,” Leon tells him, not moving to help. “You will be okay,” he adds.

Resigned, Arthur crawls back to the bed and tries to focus on one piece of furniture at a time.

“So it _was_ him,” he says. He isn’t sure if he dares to believe it just yet.

“Yes, it was him,” Leon confirms, getting up. “Thank God, otherwise you wouldn’t have made it. The ER guys were useless. But he rushed in, placed his hands on your chest and did some hocus pocus, and then you were breathing again. Do you know what they say about him?”

“No, what?” Arthur’s lids feel heavy. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open so he lets them fall shut.

“That he’s the greatest sorcerer that ever walked the earth.”

Arthur opens his eyes with effort, and scowls at Leon. “My Em?”

“Yes, _your_ Em. And by the way? Nice of you to keep your _relationship_ secret from your best mate.”

Arthur wants to say something, to explain, but Leon waves him off. “I figured it out back then and could’ve said something myself. Let’s just call it even, huh?” He turns the lights off on his way out of the room.

Arthur doesn’t argue, just closes his eyes and concentrates on inhaling and exhaling.

xxx

It’s hours later when Arthur finally gets back home. He exits the lift, heading to his door, when he spots Em sitting on the step right outside his apartment.

He looks so different. Firmer, stronger. His hair is short again and he’s filled out. His thin figure has changed into a still-slender but nicely muscled one. His face is sharper, not a trace of roundness left from his teenage years. After all, he’s twenty-one now.

He looks the same though. Same small smile in the corner of his mouth, same elegant long fingers.

Em notices Arthur, startles, and stands up slowly, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if he’s uncertain of what he’s doing here.

Arthur’s heart is so loud right now he’s sure Em can hear it. 

“Hi,” Em says. His voice is something Arthur’s missed so much.

“Hi.”

They stand opposite each other, awkward and fidgeting.

“You’re okay,” Em says, like he’s not sure if it’s really true.

Looking at Em, Arthur is many things, but he doesn’t know if okay is one of them. “Are you back?” Arthur finally asks.

Em nods, but with a slow move of his head as though hesitant. “I’ve been back in London for a while now, yeah. I was going to contact you, but...” And after a pause, “There’s a real revolution coming up.”

“So I’ve heard.” Arthur says.

“Mordred wanted to eliminate you to ensure the safety of his plans to overtake the country.”

That much Arthur knows. “I would’ve joined you, you know?” he says. “I’ll always be on your side, Em, I _will_ support you. But not like this. Not in a _revolution._ And Mordred—“

“I’ll take care of Mordred.” It sounds like a line from a bad movie, but a very real shiver runs down Arthur’s spine at the tone of Em’s voice—full of sad, angry determination. Arthur wonders how hard it must be for Em to be disappointed yet again with someone whom he might have loved once.

Again, they stand in silence that brings back bad memories.

Em sits back on the floor and doesn’t look at Arthur when he starts to talk. “’It’s either me or him’ he’d said. Mordred. I was so careful to not let him see what you were to me then, to feign this indifference, to leave you there _like I didn’t_ _really_ _care_. But he saw it anyway. Of course he saw it.” Em laughs humourlessly. “He’s bloody brilliant.  Always has been perceptive, sharp. Nothing gets past him.” Em lets out a heavy sigh. “Not that it took much to see how crazy about you I was. You were all I could bloody think about.” Em smiles ruefully.

“’Choose,’ he’d said. But there wasn’t any choice there because he’d come after you in the blink of an eye if I chose you. He’d warned me about it, and I knew well what he was capable of. What he still is, apparently.”

“I had no idea,” Arthur whispers. He isn’t sure if he wants to punch Em right now, or just bang his own head on the wall hard, because he should’ve suspected this.

“I know. That was kind of the whole point. You—not knowing.” Em smiles nervously, shifts on the stairs and looks Arthur in the eye. There’s remorse there, and something else Arthur can’t quite decipher. “I’d give up everything if it meant I could keep you safe, Arthur. Alive,” Em says. “I’d lay down all I knew, all I believed in, fuck, I’d abjure my magic if it would keep you safe.”

Em looks down again, picking at the cuticles on his fingers. “And then, after Freya, I realised it didn’t matter whether I was with him or not because… there would always be _accidents_ and casualties if I was close to you. And your father—I can’t believe it, but I actually agreed with him then. I thought that maybe if I stayed away from all this,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, “from _you_ , then maybe it’d be okay. That maybe if I were with someone else for a change, just, you know, someone who’d not be so tangled up in this shit—“

“Gwaine,” Arhur supplies.

“Gwaine.” Em nods. “But it was cheating. And so unfair to him. As if he was my emergency exit.”

“So you’re not…?” Arthur asks, ashamed that all he can think about at this moment is if Em is _available,_ and if there’s a chance for them still.

“Gods, no. Not since that summer you came to Bristol.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur really feels sorry. He doesn’t even want to start on what he’s sorry for.

“Yeah.” Em sighs. “And you?”

For a moment he doesn’t understand. “What?”

“I’ve read that famous interview about your coming out. So, is there? A special someone?”

_So Em’s read about him, kept tabs on him_ , Arthur thinks. He smiles, just a little bit.

“No,” he says. “Not that I haven’t tried. But no. No one after you.”

Arthur sits next to Em. He can feel the familiar heat of Em’s body next to his, the gentle current of magic tingling where their thighs almost meet. Em squints at him again, smile turning up the corners of his lips.

Arthur makes the move, because it’s his forgiveness after all. He reaches to Em’s lap and takes Em’s hand in his, wanting him to know that he understands now, and that he’s never stopped loving him. Because this is what it is in the end. It’s still love.

Em’s fingers twitch as if he’s not been expecting this. And there’s a moment of hesitation, dread creeping up on Arthur, because maybe he’s misunderstood? Maybe that’s not what Em’s here for? Maybe it’s too late, they’ve blown their chance—there’s no entering the same river twice and all that? But then Em returns the squeeze. It’s gentle, but it’s there, unmistakable. They sit together for a while, Arthur listening to his own heartbeat, still rapid in his chest, wondering if Em can feel the pulse of it in his fingers.

“What now?” Arthur finally asks, his grip on Em’s hand still firm because he’s never ever letting Em go again.

“I thought we could go for a coffee? Start over?” Em says, and smiles broadly. “And then—we’ve got this revolution to tame.”

Sun shines through the hall’s window, lightening everything in a soft yellow glow, making Em look as if he’s made of gold. And Arthur thinks that this is it—this is his magical boy, his only salvation.

The knot he’s had in his chest for so long, since forever now, suddenly eases. He’s able to breathe again. He can feel Em’s magic wrapping itself around him like a gentle caress and he smiles, too.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> The dub/con refers to Arthur being drugged during his first encounter with Merlin. Merlin is underage (16 – the age of consent in UK) when the story starts and Arthur is 30. Infidelity is for a reason.


End file.
